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TiaSBTTE, *T W. T. *I0HA1»I.

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, In the year IHM, or
Is the Clerk's OfBce of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts,

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. — Byron, . . . .29
SHERWOOD FOREST. — Robin Hood, . .49
NOTTINGHAM CASTLE. — Alice Vane, . . • 79
WARWICK CASTLE. — Guy op Warwick, . . .101
Queen Philippa, . . 123
KENILWORTH CASTLE. — Little Rosamond, . . 143
leigh, . . 165
THE TOWER, CONTINUED. — Ladies Jane and
Catharine Grey 187
THE TOWER, CONTINUED. — Arabella Stuart, . 209
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. — The Two Wills, . . 227
rogation, . ... . 245

It is to the little readers of The Little
Pilgrim, for whose instruction and amusement
the following sketches were originally written,
that I dedicate them now.


When in my childhood I read the charming
stories of Mrs. Sherwood and Miss Edgeworth,
and Walter Scott’s Tales of a Grandfather,
there sprang lip in my heart a great longing to
visit those noble old countries over the sea from
whence our forefathers came; and when in my
girlhood, at school, I read the histories of Eng
land, Ireland, Scotland, France, and ancient
.Rome, stronger and stronger grew that longing,
and every year that passed after only added to
its intensity, until at last I resolved that, God
willing, I would see those foreign lands and
those peoples about which I had thought and
dreamed so long. I have always noticed that
a resolution formed in this manner is very sure
to be carried out. There were many obstacles
in the way of my darling plan ; but my heart and
will were in it ; and so it came about that, on
the 29th of May, 1852, I sailed from New York

or the steamship Atlantic for Liverpool, Eng
I never shall forget that day. It was very
calm and sunny; the skies shed no tears over our
going, and the sea seemed to invite us out on to
its smooth and smiling expanse. They say that
I bore up very well in parting with the friends
who went with me on board the ship ; but
when they were gone, and we had put off from
shore, all seemed to grow dark and desolate
around me. I felt like a poor little child left
for the first time among strangers, and for a
while I fear I behaved like a child; for I bowed
m) head upon my hands and cried bitterly, and
thought that I had been rash and foolish in.
leaving my pleasant valley home and all my
dear ones to seek my fortune, as it were, in that
great, strange world over the sea. But presently
I said to myself, “ This will never do; we have
undertaken a brave thing, and we must carry it
bravely through.” So, dashing away my tears,
1 choked down my childish feelings, and never
*et them overcome me again.
For the first half of the voyage the weather
continued pleasant and all went well. We

became accustomed to our life on shipboard, and
endeavored to make ourselves at home. But it
was very, very dull, I assure you, though we tried
hard to amuse ourselves by walking and talking,
reading and playing games. Borne ate and drank
a great deal, “ just to pass away the time,” they
said; though, if you had seen them,at the table,
you would have supposed they had always been
used to eating five hearty meals a day, they took
to it so naturally. We were all so anxious to
be entertained that we laughed at jokes that we
would never have thought of laughing at on
shore ; indeed, I am afraid that two or three
young gentlemen grew rather conceited and fan
cied themselves very clever and witty because
we laughed at their nonsense when we had
nothing else to do. There was one of these, I
remember, who one morning formed the bright
idea of pinning a large card, with the word
“ Engaged ” printed on it, belonging to his state
room, on to the coat skirt of another gentleman ;
but he so enjoyed his own trick beforehand that
he went round among all the passengers to tell
them what he was going to do; and the conse
quence was, that some one slyly pinned just such

a card to his coat skirt; and we were ail laughing
at him when he thought we were laughing at his
foolish joke.
There was an elderly gentleman who had a
Bpyglass, and was always on the lookout for
icebergs and whales. One day, after standing
for hours on the wheel house, patiently watching,
he shouted out that there was a great iceberg in
sight. Though we all became excited in a mo
ment and eager to behold this new wonder of
the great deep, we could not make out any thing
distinctly ; but the elderly gentleman declared
that he saw it as plainly as possible, sparkling
in the noonday sun, and a large polar bear sit
ting on the topmost point. But when the cap
tain levelled his glass in the direction pointed
out he laughed, and said there was nothing there
but a great white cloud. As for whales, there
was but one seen during the voyage, and that
came spouting along one morning when the
elderly gentleman was down below eating his
lunch. He was terribly vexed at losing the sight
after having watched for it so long, and really
seemed to take a spite against whales, for he
never looked out for them after, but turned

his attention to Mother Carey’s chickens and
porpoises. The first are little sea birds that
sailors have a high regard for and consider
sacred. If a passenger should shoot one, they
would expect a tremendous storm to come up
directly and the vessel to be wrecked in a few
hours. Of course this is a foolish superstition. •
Porpoises are great, ugly, clumsy fish, that gen
erally swim in large companies, or “ schools,” as ■
they are caUed, and roll and tumble about in an
extraordinary manner.
Hour after hour of the long, bright days, when
we were out of sight of land, I used to sit on
deck, looking over the sea, watching the great
green waves, with their white tops flashing in
the sun, as they rolled far, far away, till they
seemed to break against the sky. I knew it was
very grand and sublime; but I hated it all the
while, and would have given more for a few rods
of firm earth, grassy, and shady, and flowery,
than for all the seas that ever rolled under the
sun. Though I kept up, and went to my meals,
and made believe I enjoyed them; though I
walked the deck every day as if I were working
my passage over; though I laughed at every

body’s jokes, which was hardest of all, — yet
I never felt happy or well, and always longed
for land.
One day, much to my surprise, I spied a real
live butterfly on one of the spars of the vessel.
It had been blown out from the shore, the
captain said; but its wings were wet with spray
and torn by the winds, and it did not live many
minutes after it lit.
I thought to myself that perhaps this poor
little creature had been born in some secluded
cottage garden, brought up on the sweetest honey
and the purest dew, cradled by night in a jasmine
flower, and rocked by soft summer winds, or
cosily couched in the heart of a rose, and sung
to sleep by a merry cricket; that perhaps she
had always been happy and contented till some
gossiping locust or vagrant humming bird had
filled her ears with fine stories of grander gardens
over the sea, and she had been seized with a
foolish longing for foreign travel, strange sights,
and adventures; that from this time she had
found her garden-home dull, her honey and dew
insipid, her rose-bed uncomfortable, the song of
her cricket-nurse harsh, till she could stand it no

longer, but bravely flew off from shore, right
over that beautiful, sparkling sea. Then the
strong wind took her and whirled her on and on
through the salt ocean spray all day and all night,
till it left her at last, not in a foreign, fairy
garden, but on a great ship, which smelt of tar
instead of roses, and where she sunk fluttering
down on to the deck, and the small gold stars
died out of her azure wings, and she was soon
only a little heap of shining dust. Somehow I
did not feel in such good spirits about my own
travels after thinking out this story of the but
Finally there came on stormy weather. It
was rainy, windy, and cold, and the waves ran
mountain high. They said that the sea looked
very grand and terrible from the deck; but I
knew nothing of it, for I was down in the cabin
prostrated with sea-sickness. I am not going
to describe this to you, dear children. There are
some dreadful things in this life which it is best
you should not know much about till you are old
and strong enough to bear them bravely; and
eea-sickness is one of these.
I remember that one day, when I was most ill

ancl sad, a young lady came to the sofa on which
I lay, and bent over me, and talked for some
time kindly and cheerfully. I had seen her in
our own country, dressed very richly, and adorned
with flowers and jewels, standing before great
crowds of people, and singing as we fancy the
angels sing; but never had she seemed so beau
tiful and so good as when smiling over my couch
and speaking such gentle, encouraging words to
me in my suffering. That lady’s name was
Jenny Lind.
There were several long, dark days when the
ship did nothing but roll, and pitch, and creak,
and every thing seemed turning upside down;
but, with patient waiting and enduring, all dark
ness and trouble pass off at last. The day that
the glad cry of “ Land ahead! ” was heard the
sky grew clear, the sea smooth, and we sufferers
all got well.
I can never tell how rejoiced I was to feel the
ground under my feet again, nor how green, and
pleasant, and garden-like England looked to me.
It did not seem a strange country, even at first;
and I soon grew to love it and its kind, hos
pitable people with all my heart. I presently

went into the country to visit some friends who
lived in a very charming place. On my way
there, and, indeed, every where that I went in
England, I saw noble houses, parks, and gar
dens, and pretty cottages, beautiful hedges and
lawns, grand old trees, and hosts on hosts of
flowers. X soon became quite contented and
happy; and I should have been very ungrateful
if I had felt otherwise, all was so delightful
about me, and every where I met such kind and
generous friends. I was sometimes sorry that I
could do so little and give so little in return
for this goodness. I could only love them and
thank God; but perhaps this was enough.
In the sketches which I now propose to write
I do not intend to give you a particular descrip
tion of all my travels, but shall try to tell you
something interesting of the principal places I
visited, and of the distinguished men and women
who live or have lived in them. And so ends my

^trntfnrรถ tiptt Ittntu

fcSiT One fresh June
morning, half sunny
and half showery, like most
summer days in England, 1
drove with a pleasant party
of friends into a quiet country village, and
stopped before a remarkably old and odd-looking
house, which, after gazing at very earnestly for a
while, we entered. We first passed through a

room, which seemed built for a shop, into a
smaller apartment, containing a great deep fire
place, with seats in each corner under the chim
ney. We then ascended a narrow flight of stairs
to a chamber empty of every thing but a few
books and pictures, and with the walls and even
the ceiling written all over with visitors’ names.
Well, this queer old house is the house of the
great Shakspeare, and this little chamber is the
one in which he was born.
The English keep very sacredly the ancient,
weather-beaten, moss-grown building in which
their grandest poet first opened his baby eyes,
toddled about in as an infant, played in as a
boy, spent year after year in as a young man.
They are proud enough, all the world knows, of
many other things, but proudest of all of the
name and fame of Shakspeare. Among those
names written on the walls I found many fa
mous men and women, and even some kings
and princes, though by far the greater part were
Smiths and Joneses, Robinsons and Jacksons,
Browns and Simpsons — families which I think
oiust travel a great deal and very fast; for I

saw their names every where I went in Europe,
though I was pretty sure I left them all in
From the house we went to a lonely old
church on the banks of the river Avon, where,
in what is called the chancel, we saw the tomb
and the bust of Shakspeare.
When, my dear young readers, you are grown
to be v men and women, you will doubtless read
the works of this poet; but in the mean time, as
we are at Stratford, perhaps you will be inter
ested in hearing something of the man who has
made it such a famous place.
On the 26th day of April, 1564, (only thmlc
how long ago!) one Mr. John Shakspeare and
his wife Mary presented themselves at the parish
church of Stratford upon Avon with a young
baby, whom they had christened William. The
parents were probably dressed in their best, and
brought a good number of friends with them.
The mother may have looked a little pale, and

trembled, and wept somewhat with joy and
thankfulness. The father must have been proud
and happy; for, though he had two little daugh
ters, this was his first son ; but he doubtless
bore himself like a man on the occasion.
Mr. John Shakspeare was a respectable wool-
dealer and a magistrate; but his wife was of a
proud and wealthy family, — one of the Ardens
of Wilmecote,—and some of her friends thought
that she might have looked higher than a trades
man. But I hope that she never felt so, nor
treated her husband any less kindly than if he
had been a lord.
Years went by, and the little William, or Will.,
as he was called, grew in beauty and in knowl
edge. He was not so ruddy and robust as most
English boys; but he was well formed, active,
and spirited. He had a broad, high brow, great,
deep, thoughtful eyes, and a mouth full of sweet
ness and pleasantness. Yet he was a strange
wayward, wilful boy, who never took heartily to
work of any kind, and was never tired of read
ing poetry, plays, romances, and history. He
loved to wander off alone in the fields and
woods, to listen to the winds and birds in the

trees, and the ripple and laughter of brooks
down rocks and glens’; and he sometimes might
Have been overheard talking to himself and sing
ing snatches of wild songs. He would lie for
hours on the banks of the Avon, watching the
shadows and the clouds, or idly plucking up
grass and daisies and flinging them on the little
river, while he dreamed out beautiful plays and
wonderful fairy tales; and in stormy winter
nights he would sit in the great chimney corner
and tell strange, wild stories to his brothers and
sisters, till he made them laugh and cry, and
sometimes huddle together and cling about their
mother with fright and horror. He was his
mother’s darling child. She only understood
him, and knew all that was noble and beauti
ful under his faults and strange ways ; yet she
was at times almost frightened to see how: much
wit, and cleverness, and understanding the boy
had. When sometimes his father would scold
because William showed no inclination towards
the wool business or any business at all, and
would say that the lad would “never come to
any good,” his mother always answered, with
a good deal of spirit, u Our Will, is sure to

make some noise in the world yet; now, mark
my words, John.”
But the neighbors all shook their heads wisely
and said, “ Mrs. Shakspeare is spoiling that boy
he’ll never make the man his father is.”
• I am sorry to say that, as he grew out of boy
hood, tns young poet fell into rather wild ways
He was very witty and lively, and so was mucl
courted by gay company and exposed to many
temptations. He showed, too, that a great gen
ius can be very foolish and imprudent, by marry
ing, before he was eighteen, Miss Anne Hatha
way — doubtless a worthy young woman in her
way, but not suited to William Shakspeare, it
seems, for he was not long happy with her. He
was obliged to leave his family and Stratford at
last very suddenly, and probably in the night
time, for having been engaged in poaching and
deer killing on the estate of one Sir Thomas
Lucy, a great man in those parts, who became
very much enraged against him. He went up to
London, and became a writer of plays and an
actor at the Globe Theatre. This was in the
latter part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, or
good Queen Bess,” as she was called. She

was a good sovereign on many accounts, but a
hard-hearted, vain, and passionate woman. She
loved to be feared, honored, and obeyed ; but,
better stiJl, she loved to be flattered. When she
was young she was rather fine looking, and used
to spend many hours at the mirror adorning and
admiring herself; but, as she grew old, she grew
excessively ugly, till at last she took a vow never
to look in a glass again. After that, some of
her maids, who had a spite against her, were
mischievous enough to dress her hair in ridicu
lous ways, and put the paint on her cheeks in
streaks and spots; so that she often was a hid
eous object when she believed herself looking
This Queen was fond of the theatre, and ad
mired William Shakspeare’s plays. She some
times set him subjects. He wrote one of his
best plays for her, and paid her several beautiful
compliments. After the Queen had smiled on
him, all the noble ladies and gentlemen suddenly
found out that he was a great wit and genius,
and every body paid court to him. But the
royal favor never came to any thing more than
words. Her majesty never gave him titles, cas-

ties, or estates; and I don’t suppose it ever en
tered into her head to make him one of her
councillors. But perhaps it was as well for
him; for that was not altogether an agreeable
or comfortable office, the Queen being in the
habit of storming furiously at her .ministers when
they ventured to differ from her—’.sometimes
jumping up and soundly boxing their ears.
It is not now known just what kind of a life
William Shakspeare led in London. His friend
Ben Jonson, a writer, praises him very much,
and, as we can find no bad account of him, we
may safely conclude that he was not a bad man.
You know there are always plenty of people in
the world who are more ready to speak their
minds about their neighbors’ faults than to cor
rect their own; so, if the poet had been very
immoral, it would surely have come down to us
in some way.
The great Elizabeth died a miserable old
woman at last—left a thousand magnificent
dresses in her wardrobe, and not a friend to
weep over her grave; for she had never loved
any one half so well as she loved herself.
Soon after King James VI, of Scotland, came

to the throne, William Shakspeare left London
and the theatre, and, with a little fortune that he
had made by his writings, went down to Strat
ford, where he bought a place not far from the
old house, and lived very comfortably with his
The neighbors said that he had turned out
better than they expected, but that he was still
far from equal to his father, honest John Shaks
peare, the wool-dealer. He was never a great
man to them. Neighbors are always the last
people in the world to see a man’s greatness.
They never made a magistrate of him in Strat
ford; and he died as he had lived — simple Will.
But since that time his fame has filled the
world, until it is every where allowed that he is
the greatest poet that ever existed. There is no
book of poetry that has ever been written that
contains so many wise, and beautiful, and won
derful things as the works of Shakspeare, as you
will find when you are old enough to read them
for yourselves. When that time comes, let me
advise you to be sure and get an edition without

any notes. There are some passages in Shales
peare of which it is difficult to understand the
meaning; and if you read the notes you are sure
never to get to the bottom of it, they make the
matter so much worse.


One of the pleas
antest excursions 1
made while in England was
to Newstead Abbey, Not
tingham, and Lincoln, from
Birmingham, where I was visiting.
Newstead Abbey, once the home of the cele
brated Lord Byron, was founded by Henry II.
Its monks were of the order of St. Augustine,
very rich and learned men, high in the favor of

the king. This abbey stands in the most beau
tiful part of Nottinghamshire, in the very heart
of old Sherwood Forest. It is a noble building,
though now partly in ruins. It is in the midst
of a fine park, and is surrounded by noble trees,
among which are some yews full seven hundred
years old. There is a lovely lake in front of the
abbey, a stream and waterfall, and back of it
gardens, fountains, walks, long shady avenues,
fish-ponds, and almdsl every out-door luxury you
can imagine. Ah, they understood how to en
joy the good" things of Ihis life, those same holy
old monks. At the reformation, the abbey and
lands of Newstead were taken from the Roman
church and given to one Sir John Byron, a fa
vorite of the king; and in the Byron family they
remained until the late Lord Byron sold them to
his friend Colonel Wildman. But, though it is
now repaired and splendidly fitted up as a gen
tleman’s residence, Newstead Abbey would be a
place of little interest if it were not for the mem
ory of the great poet who once owned it.
The works of Lord Byron — some of which,
I am sorry to say, are not so good as they should
be — you will not read for years to come; but

I think it is well yon should know something
of the poet himself, that you may be better
able to judge of any of his writings which may
accidentally fall into your hands; and so I will
tell you
George Gordon Byron was born in London
January 22, 1788. His father was Captain By
ron, and his mother Catharine Gordon, of Gight.
"When George was about two years old his
parents removed to Aberdeen, in Scotland. Cap
tain Byron and his wife were unfortunately not
well suited to one another. They found that
they did not agree living together, and so agreed
to live apart. Yet they were not on very bad
terms with each other, but polite and even neigh
borly, Captain Byron often dropping in to take
a cup of tea with his wife and little son in a
friendly way. Such a state of things would
seem rather strange to us; but people in high
life have many ways which we common folks
lind it hard to understand.
Mrs. Byron was a woman of most violent

temper, and, though a foolishly fond mother,
often harsh and impatient with her son, who
was a passionate, high-spirited boy. She used
to fly into a terrible fit of anger and storm away
at him whenever he did any thing wrong; and
this would rouse his pride and resentment. So
there were sometimes frightful scenes between
these two, who, after all, loved each other very
George was, from his birth, lame from having
one of his feet deformed, and through all his
boyhood suffered a great deal from the efforts
made by the surgeons to put this foot into
shape ; but he is said to have borne his pain
with the utmost courage and patience. He had
a nurse, a very good young woman, named May
Gray, of whom he was very fond, and who used
always to dress his foot for him when the doctor
did not. After putting on the machines and
bandages at night, May would sit down beside
his bed and sing to him sweetly and soothingly,
and tell him stories and legends, or teach him to
repeat holy Psalms. In this way he learned a
great deal of the Bible. When at last he had
fallen asleep, she would bend over his pillow

and gaze 011 him as he lay with one delicate
hand under his flushed cheek—on his full, fair
brow, and clustering curls, and long, dark eye
lashes, and proud, sweet lips; for George was a
very beautiful boy; and she would grieve that her
darling little master must suffer so much pain and
mortification from his deformed foot, till the tears
would drop from her eyes down on to his face,
and he would stir uneasily in his sleep. Then
she would go away softly and leave him to his
rest. Then, perhaps, Mrs. Byron would come in
to see him as he lay in his little crib ; and, though
she may have beaten him violently only an hour
or two before, she would now, looking at his
noble head, and not seeing his poor foot, feel
such pride in his beauty that she would fall to
kissing and fondling him till she got him wide
awake, and poor May’s work had all to be done
over again.
When I was at Newstead I heard a funny
anecdote of little Byron and his nurse which
may amuse you.
When his foot was very bad she was in the
habit of carrying him about the house and gar
den on her back. One day he wished her to

take him with her to an out-house where hens
and pheasants were kept. He had on a fine
velvet suit, and it rained; but he insisted that
he would see his “ pretty pheasants; ” so May
hoisted him on her shoulders and trotted off.
Just inside the door of this out-house there stood
a bin full of the feathers of hens, ducks, turkeys,
and pheasants; and it happened that May, in
her hurry to get in out of the rain, stumbled, and
pitched her little master right over her head into
this bin. Down, down he sunk, kicking and
choking; and when his nurse pulled him out he
looked so funny, with his wet, velvet clothes and
his curly head stuck all over with down and
feathers, that she broke into a merry fit of laugh
ter. This threw George into such a terrific pas
sion that he flew at her and fought like a little
For several years George attended a grammar
school in Aberdeen, kept by one Master Bowers.
His schoolmates say of him that he was “ a live
ly warm-hearted, and spirited boy, passionate
and resentful, but affectionate and companion
able — to a remarkable degree fearless and ven
turous, and always more ready to give than to
take a blow.”

We have seen that his unworthy father took
no care of him in his education and training;
he was never taught by his mother to control his
temper or'curb his pride ; he had little help from
any body in cultivating what was good and
putting down what was bad in his character;
so we must not blame him too harshly because
he was a wilful, wayward, and passionate boy.
Though quick at the studies that suited his
taste, George was not, in general, a forward and
ambitious scholar ; indeed, he was nearly always
at the foot of his class; but at this school it was
the custom to alter the order of the classes
once in a while, so that the highest and lowest
boys would change places. When this hap
pened the young poet would find himself at
the head; and then his master would laugh,
and say, slyly, “ Now, Georgie, my man, let me
see how soon you’ll be at the foot again.”
From Aberdeen George was removed by his
mother into the Highlands for the good of his
health, which was very delicate after an attack
of scarlet fever. Here he learned to love moun
tains, waterfalls, dark glens, and the wild sea
'shore. He would often wander off by himself,

and sometimes get lost in the high heal her 01
stuck fast in a morass.
In his eleventh year George Byron’s grand-
uncle died, and he became Lord Byron, of New-
stead and Rochdale, in Lancashire. This was a
great change for the little lad — a greater change
than you, dear children, can understand in this
republican country of ours, where we have no
grand titles of this sort, where we don’t want
them, — at least we say so, — and where it is
certain we can’t get them. When first his name
was read aloud in school as “ Lord Byron,” and
he saw all his schoolfellows, with whom he had
so often frolicked and fought, open their eyes
wide, and look at him so still, and respectful,
and almost frightened, he turned pale and red,
and then burst into tears. In play-hours the
boys were so distant and deferential, or made
fun of him so maliciously, that he had little
pleasure in his new title ; and when he went
home he ran up to his mother and asked her if
she saw any difference in him since he had been
made a lord, as he didn’t see any himself.
It was in the joyous summer time that the
young lord left Scotland, with his mother and

nurse May, to take possession of the family estate
of Newstead. In this journey they passed beautiful
Loch Leven, much fine scenery, and many noble
country seats ; but the thoughts of little George
were filled with glowing anticipations of the
grand old house to which he was going. When
they reached the Newstead toll-bar, and saw the
wide grounds and rich woods of the abbey
stretching out before them, Mrs. Byron pre
tended not to know where they were, but said
to the woman of the toll-house, —
“ Pray, who owns this fine place ? ”
“ Why, my lady, it belonged to old Lord By
ron, who died some months ago.”
“ And who is the next heir ? ” asked the
“ They say,” the woman answered, “ it is a
little boy who lives at Aberdeen.”
“ And this is he, bless him! ” cried out May
Gray, who could not restrain her delight any
longer, but turned and kissed the young lord at
her side with tears of joy in her eyes. Byron
returned the kiss in a proud, patronizing way he
had lately assumed, but with a curl of his red,

handsome lip that seemed to say, “ What silly
creatures these women are ! ”
At Newstead George remained, enjoying the
grandeur of having a neglected estate and a
dilapidated old abbey of his own, and hearing
himself “ My lord-ed ” from morning to night
till he got used to it; for people will get used
to any great honor at last. You know we some
times see, in our own country, captains, colonels,
and even generals, who after a while take their
titles so easily one would scarcely know them
from common men except on muster days.
Here, for some time, poor Byron suffered more
cruelly than ever with his foot; here his genius
first broke out into rhyme. I am very sorry to
be obliged to record that his first poem was a
naughty epigram on an old lady who, while on a
visit to his mother, had made some remark that
offended his little lordship; but he seems to have
been contented with this, and to have strung no
more rhymes for several years.
Byron had a half-sister, Augusta, of whcm he
was very fond always. She was his playmate
at Newstead. I saw in the grounds an elm tree

in the bark of 'which he once carved her name
with his own. Some of the letters yet remain.
After a. year or two the Byrons left .Newstead
for London, where the yonng lord was placed at
his studies under a tutor. His dear nurse, May
Gray, was then obliged to leave him and return
to Scotland. She was grieved to go, and he was
sad to part with hei. He gave her his own watch,
and a pretty, full-length miniature of himself,
and never forgot her love and faithfulness.
From London Byron went to the great school
at Harrow — a very . beautiful place. Here,
though he often showed himself proud and
imperious, he was beloved and admired for what
was true and noble in his character.
There was at this school a fine, clever boy,
who was known as “ little Bob Peel.” One day
it happened that one of the older boys, a stout,
brutal fellow, undertook to make a “ fag ” —- that
is, a sort of school slave — of young Peel; but
the little hero resisted with all his might. His
tyrant, however, soon conquered, and then pro
ceeded to beat him in a most cruel manner. In
the midst of this, another boy, somewhat older
than Peel, but too small to hope to master the

large boy, came running up, and, with tears in
his eyes and cheeks hot with indignation, asked
how many blows he meant to inflict.
“ Why, what is that to you, you young ras-
cal ? ” was the reply.
“ Because, if you please,” said the noble lad,
“ 1 would take half! ”
This boy was afterwards the great Lord By
ron ; little Bob was the great Sir Robert Peel;
but the big bully who beat them nobody knows
any thing about now.
From Harrow Byron went to Cambridge Col
Here he published his first volume of poems,
which were not thought remarkably clever, even
for a lord. Indeed, the critics came down upon
them in a savage way, and thought, doubtless,
that they had made an end of the poor young
lordling. But no ; their abuse only did him
gooji and brought him out stronger than ever.
He came down upon the critics in his turn bit
terly and fiercely; and they soon found they had
brought a hornet’s nest about their ears when
they thought they were only demolishing a twit
tering swallow’s nest.

Byron spent some of his vacations at New-
stead, which, though in an almost rained condi
tion, he always loved. He had here a faithful
servant, “old Joe Murray,” of whom he was
very fond, and a noble Newfoundland dog, named
Boatswain, who was his favorite pet and play
fellow. This dog was seized with madness,
and, after a great deal of suffering, which he
bore gently and patiently, died, much to the
grief of his master, who mourned for him as
for a dear friend, and erected over his grave a
beautiful marble monument, which is standing
to this day. It is related that, during the dread
ful last illness of poor Boatswain, Byron would
sit by him in his paroxysms and tenderly wipe
the foam from his mouth.
After leaving college, Byron took his seat as a
peer of England in the House of Lords. Then
he went into London society, and became, I am
sorry to say, a very wild and extravagant young
man. But he grew more and more famous, till
all the world did all in their power to spoil him
with deference and flattery. He was especially
praised and petted by the ladies, who declared
that he was the handsomest, wittiest, and most

interesting young lord that ever was seen. Men
were not so enthusiastic as all this; they some
times called him. a coxcomb, and did not account
him so very handsome or so wonderfully clever
after all.
Lord Byron next travelled on the continent of
Europe a year or two, and wrote the first part of
his great poem, CMlde Harold. Then he re
turned to England and married,, but did not
settle, down quietly and contentedly as he should
have done, but went on in his old, wild, reckless
way, and got deeper and deeper into debt, till
the friends of Lady Byron interfered, and she,
with her infant daughter, little Ada, went away
from her husband, never to return. Then, when
he was most desolate and desperate, every body
who had praised and flattered him when, per
haps, he was no better than now, broke out
against him, and raised a perfect tempest of
blame and hatred about his head. This is the
way of the world, children, at least of the greak
fashionable world, every where. Byron’s mothe-g
was now dead ; his sister Augusta was married \
his property was gone, for he was obliged to sell
dear old Newstead; so he resolved to leave Eng<

land forever. He went down to Italy, where he
spent several years, writing great poems, but
living a, most unhappy life. His troubles and
misfortunes had hardened and imbittered his
heart. He was sad and sometimes remorseful,
but never humble and repentant. He tried to
escape from the reproaches of his conscience in
pleasure, adventiire, and dissipation ; and, be
cause of the wrongs inflicted on him by a few,
he tried to hate all the world; but he could not
quite do this. There were times when the old
love for his country, his boyhood’s friends, his
sister, his wife, and little daughter Ada broke out
in sweet and sorrowful poetry, which one can
hardly read without tears. Even when his life
was most blamable he was often known to do
things which showed what generous and noble
impulses he had by nature. He was always
kind and charitable to the poor, and, though far
from rich, never refused to give to the truly needy
and suffering.
It is recorded of him that once, when passing
over the Alps on horseback, there came up a
terrific thunder storm. In th3 midst of it he
recollected that his guide was carrying for him

a sword-cane, and, fearing that the lightning
might be attracted towards the poor Swiss lad
by the steel, took it away from him and carried
it himself.
But the last days of Lord Byron were the
noblest. He went into Greece in the year 1823,
and offered his services to the brave Greeks in
their struggle with the Turks for freedom. They
gratefully accepted his generous offer ; but he
never had the privilege of fighting and shedding
his noble blood in their righteous cause. At
Missolonghi he was taken ill of a fever, not
very violently, however, and there seemed little
danger at first; but he had not very skilful nurs
ing or many comforts about him ; and he had
several physicians, who were never done with
blood-letting; so it soon went hard with him,
and after a few days all hope was given up.
On the afternoon before he died, when he was
very weak, he called his faithful servant Fletcher
to him and gave him some last messages to his
wife, and daughter, and sister, but in such an in
distinct voice that poor Fletcher could only make
out the names, u Lady Byron,” “ Ada,” “ Augus
ta.’ When, weeping, he told his master that he

had not understood any thing more, Byron
seemed much distressed, and said, —
“What a pity! Then it is too late; all is
“I hope not,” Fletcher answered; “but the
Lord’s will be done.”
“ Yes, not mine,” said Byron, now subdued
and humble as a little child.
About six o’clock in the evening, after suffer
ing great pain in his head, he grew very quiet,
and said, softly, “ Now I will go to sleep” And
he did fall asleep, but never to wake again in
this world.
Lord Byron’s body was taken to England and
buried in Ilucknall Church, near Newstead. His
sister Augusta placed over his grave a small and
simple marble tablet, knowing that it was enough
for so great a poet. Only people who do nothing
to make a name for themselves while living need
great monuments when they are dead.
Within this year Ada Byron (Lady Lovelace)
nas been laid by the side of her father.
In judging of the character of Lord Byron,
dear children, I trust that you will pity him,
even while you condemn his faults; for the

erring are always the most unhappy. Remember
that he had great and peculiar temptations ; that,
when a child, much harm was done to him, both
by too fond indulgence and too great severity;
and that, as he grew older, he was followed and
flattered as a handsome young nobleman and a
brilliant genius, till it was a wonder his head was
not completely turned. Remember that he had
no kind, wise father, and no gentle, religious
mother, to teach him the right, to pray for him
and with him and help him to be good ; and, while
you are sorrowful for - him that he so often went
astray and made a wrong use of his beautiful
talent, for your own happier condition, shielded
from the temptations of the great world, rank,
and flattery, and pleasure, — for your own
greater blessings in pleasant, peaceful homes,
and the love and watchful care of kind parents,
— thank God morning and night.


1 have said that
Newstead Abbey
stood in the heart of old Sher
wood Forest. This, you will
remember, was the favorite do
main of that prince of outlaws — bold Robin
Ilood. There is little forest-land about there
now,— none, indeed, that we should so call,—
all the woods being enclosed in parks, and as
carefully kept as gardens. But, as I journeyed

through the country, my thoughts so went back
to the old, old time that I almost expected, when
ever we passed a grove of trees or a shadowy
glen, to be suddenly surrounded by Robin Hood’s
merry men, armed with long bows and clad in
Lincoln-green, or to see Robin Hood himself
standing under an oak, sounding his silver bugle,
till the old woods rang to the brave blast and
echo answered far adown the glen.
You have all doubtless read many stories of
Robin Hood; but, if you will listen to mine, I
hope I shall be able to tell you some things that
you have never heard before.
Robert Fitzooth, Earl of Huntingdon, was born
at Locksley, in the county of Nottingham, about
the year 1160, in the reign of Henry II. He was
left an orphan in his childhood, and placed under
the guardianship of his uncle, the Abbot of St.
Mary’s, in York. This priest professed to be a
just and holy man ; but, as it often is when
people make great pretensions to piety, he was
far enough the other way. In those days priests
were greatly feared and honored, and could do
pretty much as they pleased. So the Abbot of

St. Mary’s, who was a hard, avaricious man,
found no difficulty in taking advantage of the
young Earl Robert. By such wily, wicked ways
as only bad priests know‘he took possession of
all his nephew’s estates and revenues one after
another, pretending that he only meant to take
care of them, lest Robert, whom he accused of
being a wild lad, should squander them in dissi
pation. Robert bore this for a while, and tried
hard to keep on peaceable terms with his uncle ;
but the old man was very provoking. He would
sit in the refectory of the splendid abbey, at a
dinner table loaded with every luxury in the way
of food, served on massive gold and silver plate,
and with half a dozen bottles of good old wine
before him, and then lecture poor Robert upon
temperance, self-denial, and sober, godly living,
till Robert would smile grimly, and play with the
hilt of his dagger in a way that the venerable
abbot did not like.
When the Earl of Huntingdon came of age
there was not a handsomer or more gallant
young man among all the nobility and yeo
manry of England. He was tall, straight, and
athletic, vdth a quick, bounding step, and a

brave, broad breast. He bad a commanding but
pleasant voice, a hearty smile, clear, honest eyes,
ruddy checks and lips; and his head, which he
held rather haughtily, was crowned with cluster
ing light-brown curls. Though belonging to a
proud, aristocratic family^ — who, in tracing their
noble pedigree, could go back, back, till, for all I
know, they lost themselves and their reckoning
in the fogs of the first morning after the deluge,
— Robert was not an aristocrat. He sympa
thized with the common people, in that day
shamefully imposed upon, taxed, and tyrannized
over by the bold barons and hard-hearted priests.
He joined in all their merry-makings, their man
ly and warlike exercises. He became so skilful
with his bow that it is said he frequently sent
an arrow the distance of a mile. From among
his fiiends he selected four comrades, who were
always true to him — John Nailor, whom he
nicknamed “ Little John,” George-a-Green, Muck,
a miller’s son, and a jolly friar called Tuck, the
only priest Robert could ever abide.
One day a small sprig of the nobility, one Sir
Roger, of Doncaster, saw him mingling with the
honest yeomen in their sports, and sneered at his

vulgar tastes. Robert replied by challenging
him to a shooting match. Sir Roger’s arrow
missed the target altogether, and stuck fast in
the trunk of a tree some distance farther on.
Robert took aim at this shaft, and split it clean
up the middle. Then all the yeomen shouted
and laughed; and Sir Roger was so enraged
that he was foolish enough to accept a second
challenge to a wrestling match, in which Earl
Robert threw him so often that he never felt
fairly on his legs, but seemed always to be
bumping against the ground. At last his senses
were quite bumped out of him, and he lay stiff
and still. Earl Robert revived him and helped
him up; but he was mortified and sullen, and
ever after had a mean, bitter spite against his
brave conqueror.
It was not long after Robert came of age
before he was quite convinced that it was vain
to hope to get his property out of the close clutch
of his reverend relative. There was no use in
his appealing to the king. Henry II. was now
dead, and Richard I., called “ the lion-hearted,”
had ascended the throne. But in a short time,
thinking he had a call to go on a crusade to the.

Holy Land to fight the Saracens, he left the gov
ernment to the care of Hugh Pudsey, Bishop of
Durham, who was soon supplanted by a bolder
and stronger man — Longchamp, Bishop of Ely
and Chancellor of England, who usurped all the
power and dignity of a monarch, and taxed and
tyrannized to his bad heart’s content.
So, getting desperate, Earl Robert called to
gether the bravest of his friends, threw up his
title, assumed the name of Robin Hood, and
took to the forest, where he led from that time
a daring and dangerous, but an independent and
merry life. I know it is quite too late to think
of making my hero - out a good, honest man,
though Mr. Abbott has done wonders in that
way for Bonaparte ; for long, long ago it got
noised about that Robin Hood was a robber
and outlaw. But in those old days, when kings
robbed, and barons robbed, and priests robbed
worse than all, the thieving business was a
good deal more respectable than it is now;
and the only difference between Robin Hood
and those others was, that he took only from
the rich and powerful, while they robbed the
poor and defenceless.

The brave outlaw was joined by the best
archers in the country, to the number of a
hundred stout men and bold. These he clad
all in Lincoln-green — a dress which made it
hard to distinguish them at a little distance from
the forest foliage amid which they lurked. When
any one of these men was killed or took the
strange notion to return to his friends and turn
honest man again, Robin Hood would set out
on a recruiting expedition. Wherever he heard
of a young man of uncommon strength and
hardihood he would go, disguised, and try him
in wrestling and archery; then, if satisfied, per
suade the yeoman to enlist. This was most often
easily done; for those were hard times for the
people, and Robin Hood had a flattering tongue.
So he kept himself in his hundred archers, and
with them haunted the merry greenwood —-
Barnsdale, in Yorkshire, Plompton Park, in
Cumberland, and Sherwood, in Nottingham
shire. Past or through those forests ran the
king’s highways, whereon traders, nobles, and
priests were obliged to travel; but, after Rob
in Hood became sovereign of them, few jour
neys could be safely made in their vicinity

Sometimes, just when travellers began to breathe
freely and speak above a whisper, thinking them
selves out of danger, Robin was down upon
them, and they were obliged to come down
with their money or stand as targets for his
archers. Knowing that it was not good for
holy men to be cumbered with too much world
ly wealth, he always made free with the purses
of rich priests. The old Abbot of St. Mary’s
himself, who once ventured to pass through
Sherwood with a rich store of gold and silver,
guarded by two hundred men, fell into his hands.
After helping himself to the old miser’s money,
which was rightly his own, he set his lordship on
his horse, with his face towards the tail, and so
sent him off towards York, fretting and fuming,
and (some of Robin’s men said) swearing; but
that could hardly have been. The money so
wrested from rich monks and arrogant barons
Robin. Hood constantly shared with the poor,
and so filled many a sad home with mirth and
comfort, and made glad and grateful the hearts
of the widow and the fatherless. He was always
tender and kind to women and children. Noble
ladies, with retinues and treasures, could pass in

safety through his forests. One time a young
dandy nobleman, meaning to take advantage of
the generous outlaw’s gallantry, undertook to
pass through Sherwood, leading a train, in the
disguise of a lady; but at the first sight of a
band of archers he showed himself so much
more of a coward than a woman that Little
John suspected him, tore off his veil, and hood,
and velvet mantle, and made him pay dearly
for the insult he had put upon womankind.
Of the thousand and one adventures related
of Robin Hood I have only room in this short
history for two ; the first showing how he made
a friend—the second how he won a wife.
One morning, near Sherwood Forest, Robin
Hood met a young man walking slowly, droop
ing his head and sighing deeply; and he thought
to himself, “ This poor fellow must be melan
choly mad love ; in either case he is to be
pitied.” So he kindly questioned the youth, who
proved to be a yeoman by the name of Will.
Scarlocke. He trusted Robin Hood from the
first, and told him that he was grieving because
a fair maiden whom he loved, and who loved
him, was that day to be married by her friends to

a rich old man whom she detested. Robin Hood
inquired the time and place of the wedding; then,
telling Will, to keep up a good heart, bounded
off’ into the forest.
About noon there was a great ringing of bells
at the church; then came the wedding party and
their friends. The bridegroom looked very proud
and pompous in his gold-laced, velvet doublet
and white silk hose ; but he was wheezy and
hard of hearing, and so gouty that he had a little
page to lift his feet, first one, then the other,
up the altar-steps. The bride wept and looked
wistfully round for her lover, who was hid behind
a pillar, waiting for Robin Hood. The ceremony
began, and Will, was getting desperate, when a
tall man, in the dress of a beggar, standing near
the altar, drew a silver horn from beneath his
mantle and blew a startling blast. Instantly
fifty men in Lincoln-green burst into the church
and dispersed the bridal party, all but the low
happy bride and the frightened priest, whom
Robin Hood commanded to marry the faithful
pair at once. It was done ; and ever after Will
Scarlocke was the fast friend of Robin Hood.
One day, in pursuing a deer, Robin Hood was

led into the park of the Earl of Fitzwater. There
he suddenly heard voices and the trampling of
horses, and soon saw a mail-clad knight, fol
lowed by six men-at-arms, and leading by the
bridle a‘palfrey, on which sat a lovely lady,
weeping and wringing her hands. This maiden
Robin H6od recognized at once as the young
Lady Matilda, only daughter of the Earl of Fitz
water. Though quite alone, he did not hesitate,
but sprang forward before the party, crying, —
“Hold, thou false knight! I command thee
to let that noble lady go free! ”
“ Stand off, thou unmannerly churl, or I will
cleave thy skull with my broadsword! Know
thou that I am John, thy prince.”
“ And know thou,” replied the outlaw, “ that I
am Robin Hood, King of Sherwood Forest.”
At these words all six of the men-at-arms put
spurs to their horses and fled; and the prince was
glad to follow, scowling and cursing as he went.
Then Lady Matilda, who seems to have been
rather a romantic young woman, fainted, and fell
into Robin Hood’s arms; and he, not knowing
exactly what to do for a lady in such a case,
carried her to a brook, and was about to dip her

head in the water, when she suddenly came to
herself. She then related to her preserver how
that bad prince, whom she hated with all her
might, had long been urging her to go with him
to his wicked court, and how that afternoon,
while she was walking in the park, he had sur
prised and carried her off. She told this story
reclining on a mossy bank, with Robin Hood
sitting at her feet, looking up into her face. She
finished her story; yet still Robin Hood sat at her
feet, looking up into her face. At last the twi
light shadows began to fall; then he sighed, and
said, —
“It is getting late, my lady; shall I conduct
you home ? ”
But the Lady Matilda bent towards him,
blushing and speaking very softly, and said,—
“ You have saved me from shame and sorrow,
henceforth I belong to you.”
Robin Hood started up gladly, then sunk back
sadder than before, and said, —
“ No, lady, no ; you have been too delicately
reared for an outlaw’s wife.”
He then told her that though she might not
dislike his forest life in the warm summer-time,

yet when the fall rains and winter frosts came
she would find the cave in which he lived dark
and chill, and would sigh for her father’s com
fortable castle-halls.
. But Lady Matilda was strong and healthful,
and had little fear of colds or rheumatisms. She
thought Robin Hood excessively handsome, and
fancied that he would be the best protector against
that naughty prince she could have. So she
looked into his face with her beautiful, blue,
beseeching eyes till he could resist her no longer,
but lifted her on to her palfrey, and walked by
her side towards Sherwood Forest, talking to
her, holding her hand, and loving her better and
better every step. They were married at the
camp by jolly Friar Tuck, and had a merry
wedding-feast. The next day Robin Hood and
his wife, who had + aken the name of Marian,
sent a messenger to the Earl of Fitzwater, telling
him how they were married, and asking if he
had any objections. He sent back word that he
disowned his daughter, and never would forgive
her, and made some rather unhandsome remarks
upon the character of his son-in-law, which
roused Marian’s spirit. But the old Earl missed

his only child, and was so lonely in his grand
castle that at last it seemed to him he must see
her, or he should die. So he disguised him
self as a mendicant minstrel and went to Robin
Hood’s camp. He was kindly received, and
feasted with good game and excellent wine.
After dinner Robin Hood flung himself down
on a bank of wild violets for a nap, and Marian
began scattering daisies over him. The Earl
watched them in their happiness, and thought
of his own loneliness till he could stand it no
longer, but bowed his head in his hands and
burst into tears. Marian knew that sob; she
had heard it once before, when her mother died.
She dropped her flowers, ran to her father, flung
her arms round his neck, and wept with him.
Robin Hood sprang up and joined them, and all
was made up among the three. Earl Fitzwatcr
became quite fond of his son-in-law, though he
often warned him that he would come to the
gallows if he did not mend his ways. Rut
Robin Hood never changed for the better or
worse. He continued to take from the rich and
give to the poor — to play tricks and seek ad
ventures in disguise — to fight the troops of the

king and the sheriff of Nottingham — to hate
and make war on all priests to the last. He
lived to be an old man, loved by the poor, feared
and hated by the rich.
At length he fell ill of a lingering fever, and,
unluckily, went for help to his aunt, Elizabeth de
Staynton, Prioress of Kirklees Nunnery, in York
shire— a woman who had great skill in medi
cine. His old enemy, Sir Roger, of Doncaster,
hearing of this, went to her, and, telling her she
had in her power a great enemy of the church,
urged her on to a dark and cruel deed. The
Prioress went alone to Robin Hood as he lay
tossing and gasping with his fever, and, pretend
ing great kindness, said she must bleed him. He
stretched out his arm, and she opened a large
vein. The blood spouted out fiercely at first,
and ran for a long time full and fast.
“ Haven’t you taken enough ? ” asked Robin
Hood again and again, his voice growing weaker
and weaker; but the stern old woman always
answered, £< No.” Then he sunk back on his
pillow and fainted. Still the Prioress stood and
looked on him with a cold, stony face, and still he

bled and bled, till the couch on which he lay was
all afloat with his blood. At last his white lips
moved, and he murmured one word that touched
the cruel heart of the Prioress. It was the name
of Lis mother — her own sister. She sprang for
ward to bind up the arm and stop the bleeding,
but too late. Robin Hood was dead.
There is a legend of Robin Hood never yet
told in this country, which I think explains
better than any other his leading such a wild,
unlawful life.
"When the young Earl of Huntingdon was
ward of the Abbot of St. Mary’s he went often
to the Nunnery of Kirklees, under pretence of
paying his respects to his aunt, Elizabeth de
Staynton, the Prioress, but really to see a lovely
little girl whom she had under her care. This
was his cousin, the Lady Mildred de Clare, who,
like him, was an orphan. Lord Kyme, her
father, a gallant soldier, had been killed in

battle ; and his wife, who loved him more dearly
than life, than the world and every body in it,
mourned and wept herself away. Even when
her little daughter nestled warmest against her
bosom and wound her soft arms closest about
her neck, she would long to be lying beside him
under the lonely battle-ground, with her head on
his cold, dead heart
Lady Kyme always loved Robert Fitzooth,
her favorite sister’s son; and one day when, as
the children were playing on the walls of her
husband’s castle, the little Mildred fell into the
moat, and Robert saved her life at the risk of his
own, she made a solemn engagement with his
mother that, when Robert should have grown to
be a man and Mildred a young woman, they
should be married; for so, she said, two loving
hearts, two noble titles, and two fine estates
would be united.
From this time the shy and tender Mildred
looked up to her brave cousin as her future lord
and husband; while Robert began to call her his
“ little wife,” and was very loving and conde
scending towards her. She had a boudoir of
her own, where she used to play housekeeping,

and he would come to see her. Sometimes h
would pretend he was just returned from the
chase, and would stride in, blowing a little bugle,
and carrying an old deerskin, with the horns on,
and half a dozen grouse or pheasants, borrowed
from the larder. These he would fling at Mil
dred’s feet, saying,—
“ See, my fair lady, what trophies your noble
lord brings from the chase! Killed them all my
self with one arrow.”
Sometimes he would come as from the wars,
armed with rusty old pieces of mail and weapons
taken from the armory — a helmet so big that he
was obliged to stuff his jerkin (a sort of jacket)
into it to keep it from shutting down quite over
his face; a ragged corselet of chain armor, which
came to his knees; a lance, with the point broken ;
a long sword, which dragged behind him ; and a
pair of big boots of mail, with spurs. He would
look proud and warlike as he kissed Mildred’s
hand ; but he would beg her not to embrace him,
as he had no less than a score of wounds on his
breast, and some of them were a little sore.
If she asked him to take a seat, he would say,
“No, I thank you; I have several other battles

to fight to-day';” but the fact was, his boots
came up so high and his corselet hung so low
he couldn’t sit down to save him. Sometimes
he would come in morning-gown and slippers,
and, with a grand, indifferent air, lounge on a
couch, play with his dog, and take no notice of
his poor little wife, till she would begin to cry,
and ask him what she had done to make him
stop loving her, or do a wiser thing — go and get
him something nice to eat; when he was sure to
grow good humored and soon tease her for more.
But these happy, childish days passed by ; the
cousins became orphans at nearly the same time,
and, as we have seen, each was placed under
the care of a hard-hearted relative. But, though
they had many trials and discouragements, they
kept on loving each other truly year after year, till
Bobert was a brave young man and Mildred a
beautiful young woman. Bobert could not often
see his betrothed except in the presence of his
stern aunt the Prioress, and could only talk to
her through a screen of lattice-work. But some
times the Prioress permitted a certain old nun to
go with Mildred to meet her cousin. This Sis
ter Agatha was a good, compassionate woman.

Sie remembered that she was once young, and
how she Joved a brave soldier who fell in battle.
She still wore a lock of his hair, and a piece of
his scarf, with a dark-red stain upon it, next her
poor old heart. So she felt for Robert and Mil
dred, and would leave them alone, and kneel
in the next room to pray for them, while they
talked in low, loving tones, and smiled over
pleasant plans, but oftener wept sad tears on
each other’s hands, held through the lattice. Here
Robert would lighten his heart of its load of care
and grief, and pour out his impatience and in
dignation against his hypocritical uncle; while
Mildred would, grieving, tell how every day
the Prioress warned her against him as a wild,
reckless, priest-distrusting, and therefore godless
young man. The Prioress was a bigot, and
really thought she was doing right in hating and
opposing her nephew because he was not reli
gious in her particular way. I am sadly afraid
there are some people very like her in this respect
now-a-days. But the Abbot had his own rea
sons for setting himself against this marriage.
Lady Mildred had a large fortune, which he had
not been able to obtain possession of. If Earl

Robert married her this would be his, and with it
he might get back his own ; for in those wicked
days kings could be bribed and priests could be
bribed; and lawyers were not much better; they
could be bribed too. I am not sure but that we
have a few of the same sort in our time.
So the Abbot set himself to work, and with
the Prioress and Robert’s enemy, Sir Roger of
Doncaster, concocted a fine plot. The Abbot
suddenly pretended friendliness, and proposed to
his nephew to go to Nottingham Castle, with a
fine escort and outfit, and join Prince John’s
guard. Noble hearts are the last to suspect
treachery. Robert believed his uncle, went to
court, and, as he bore a sealed letter from the
Abbot, was graciously received by the Prince.
Lady Mildred grieved at his going, and, being
very modest, feared he would forget her when
he came to see the gay and grand ladies of the
court. And her fears seemed well founded ; for
weeks and months passed without bringing her
one word from Robert: then came a short, cold
letter, telling her she must give up all thought of
him as her husband, for he was about to marry
one of Queen Elinor’s maids of honor. Poor

Mildred at first cried day and night; then she
grew restless, and walked about as if she were
in a dream, and didn’t see any body or any
thing; then she became calm and haughty, and
smiled sometimes, a chill sort of a smile, and
spoke in a strange, hard tone, as though all the
sweetness had been drained out of her voice in
tears. Then the Abbot and Prioress began to
urge her to marry Sir Roger, of Doncaster ; and,
as she didn’t care what became of her now, she
Earl Robert’s faithful friend, Little John, hav
ing heard that this wedding was to be, went in
great haste to Nottingham, to Earl Robert, who
was true to his love, who had written to her
many letters, which the Prioress had pocketed,
and which the Abbot had used in imitating the
hand-writing when he forged the one that did the
mischief at last.
When Earl Robert heard Little John’s news
he. set off at once for Yorkshire, never waiting for
the Prince’s leave. He rode day and night; but
he reached Kirklees Nunnery an hour too late.
The wedding was over, and Mildred, his dear
“ little wife,” was lost to him forever.

When Lady Doncaster heard that her cousin
Robert had been constant, and that in his angei
and despair he had taken to the forests and be
come an outlaw, when she found her husband
to be a cowardly, dishonorable man, she prayed
that she^might die. But after a while God con
soled her with the gift of a noble little boy, who
from the first was like her, and unlike his father.
In loving and caring for this son, Lady Mildred
found her only happiness. Sir Roger was proud
of his handsome heir, but never was fond of him;
for, when he said or did a mean thing, he could
not bear the still scorn in the child’s eyes and
the disdainful quiver of his lip.
The castle of Sir Roger was near Barnsdale,
one of Robin Hood’s forests : and, when the free-
booting chief was there, Sir Roger never dared
to journey or hunt with ever so large a train
without his wife to protect him. He kept his
son also very close ; for he suspected him of hav
ing an admiration for the character, if not a taste
for the life, of Robin Hood.
But one morning, when Hubert was about
twelve years old, he managed to escape from the
castle, and stole off into the greenwood. That

day and night passed ; yet he did not return. Sir
Roger, after making all the search he dared, be
came convinced that the lad had fallen into Robin
Hood’s hands, and groaned with the fear that they
should never see him alive. But Lady Mildred
said, calmly, “ If Hubert is with him, Sir Roger,
he is safe. Robert Fitzooth would never harm
my — our child.”
They sent a herald to Robin Hood’s camp to
ransom and bring back the lad; but the herald
returned alone, saying that Hubert was at the
camp, but Robin Hood refused to receive the
ransom. Then Sir Roger’s fright and rage in
creased ; but Lady Mildred smiled her sad, quiet
smile, and looked out towards the forest. Sud
denly there emerged from the wood Robin Hood
and his favorite comrades, mounted on gayly ca
parisoned steeds and followed by fifty archers.
They paused on a little hill, about a bow-shot
from the castle, and drew together as if con
sulting. Then Sir Roger, growing very pale,
cried, “ The villain outlaw means to murder our
boy before our eyes ! ” But Lady Mildred still
smiled her sad, quiet smile. Then the group of
horsemen parted, and from between Robin Hood

and Little John came young Hubert, riding a
beautiful pony, as black as night and as fleet as
the wind. Down the hill he dashed, over the
meadow! The warder hurried to let down the
drawbridge and raise the portcullis ; and he came
galloping through, reined up in the court, and
flung himself, laughing, into his mother’s arms!
That night, in the great supper-hall of the
castle, Hubert told his adventures and praised
Robin Hood till his father frowned and bade
him “ cease his chattering.” But after supper
his mother called him to her chamber and ques
tioned him about his night in the forest. He
said that soon after he reached the wood he met
an archer, and boldly told hirr that he wanted to
see Robin Hood. The archer, who was a good-
natured fellow, conducted him to the camp and
introduced him to his chief as the son of Sir
Roger, of Doncaster. Robin Hood started and
frowned at first, he said; then took him by the
arm and looked long and earnestly in his face
and sighed. Here Lady Mildred sighed too.
But after that Robin Hood was very kind to
his young guest, gave him the place of honor by
his side at supper, and made the men sing, and

wrestle, and shoot with the long-bow for his
amusement. “ And at night,” said Hubert, “ he
himself arranged my bed of moss and leaves and
spread over me his own mantle, and then sat
down by my side and talked to me of you,
mother.” Here Lady Mildred sighed again.
“He staid,” continued Hubert, “talking with
me softly in the moonlight, till a beautiful lady,
whom he called Marian, came out of her tent,
where she had been singing ballads all the even
ing to a little boy at her knee, and beckoned him
away.” Here Lady Mildred sighed deeper
than before, and turned her face away from her
Hubert kept Robin Hood’s gift many years,
and sometimes rode on him to visit his outlawed
friend. He grew up to be a brave and honest
man, in spite of his weak, bad father, and won
much honor in the service of Richard, the Lion-
So Lady Mildred, who lived to a good old age,
was always happy in her noble son. As for Sir
Roger, after having helped to bring aboul
the death of bold Robin Hood, he was one day
waylaid by Will. Scarlocke and Little John, whfi

robbed him of his money and his fine velvet doub
let and tied him to a tree ; and, though he was
set free and sent home in the morning, he took
such a fright and such a cold that he fell into a
fever and died.


Nottingham, though
^ a flourishing manufac-
turing town, with many fine
buildings, is not a place of
P=C much interest, aside from the
site and a few remains of an old castle, which
we read a great deal about in English history.
A new castle was built out of the remains of the
old in Queen Anne’s time, which in turn has
gone to decay, or rather was demolished about

twenty years ago by a mob, who were enraged
against the owner, the Duke of Newcastle, for
some political act.
Old Nottingham Castle, a famous stronghold
of the early Kings of England, was built on a
high rock, overlooking the beautiful vale of Bel-
voir, the hills of Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire
wolds, and the silvery windings of the river Trent.
At the base of the great rock glides the little
river Leen.
Underneath the castle the rock is curiously
perforated in every direction by winding passages
and small caverns, some formed by Nature, but
most, it is supposed, hewn out of the solid stone
by an ancient heathen priesthood of Britain
called Druids. They sacrificed human victims
to their deity, and made use of these caves as
vaults for dead bodies of those they had mur
dered in a pious way, or as prisons for such re
fractory men and women as objected to their
particular part in the bloody religious ceremony :
at least so we are told by antiquarians — a set of
very wise men, who get together and form socie
ties, and talk very learnedly over old stones and
bones and rusty armor and musty books, and

know a great deal more about the people that
lived hundreds of years ago than about their
own brothers and sisters. They always seem to
me a sort of human owl, they can look so far
Into the dark ages, and are so delightfully at
home where every body else gets puzzled and
King John, the bad brother of Richard the
Lion-hearted, frequently held his court at Not
tingham ; and it was the chosen abode of the
beautiful Queen Isabella, wife of Edward II.
This Queen had a favorite, one Roger de
Mortimer, of whom she was very fond, and,
when her husband was deposed, made him Re
gent. Mortimer proved arrogant and tyrannical.
The nobles and people hated him; and the
young King, Edward III., hated him worse than
all. So, by the advice of a Parliament, he re
solved to make way with his mother’s danger
ous pet.
Through one of the underground passages of
which I have spoken Edward entered the citadel
and took Mortimer prisoner, in the very presence
of the Queen, and in spite of her remon
strances and threats. Richard III., who should

have been called Richard the Tiger-hearted, so
cruel and blood-thirsty was he, often held court
at Nottingham. He went from here to Bosworth
Field, where his ugly, deformed body was cut
down in battle. The unfortunate Charles I.,
in his war with Oliver Cromwell and the Par
liament, hoisted his banner on the highest tur
ret of the castle, and with his own hand set up
his royal standard on a hill near by. A great
storm arose and blew it down that very night,
which was taken by the superstitious people for
a fearful omen ; and when, a few years after, the
poor King was brought to Nottingham Castle,
on his way to Holmby, in Nottinghamshire, a
powerless prisoner, every body said, “ I told
you so.”
For several years during the period of the great
civil war between the Royalists and Republi
cans, which took place more than two hundred
years ago, one Colonel John Hutchinson was
Governor of Nottingham Castle, holding it for
Cromwell and the Parliament. It was a very
important fortress; and the Royalists tried every
means in their power to get possession of it.
The Earl of Newcastle offered a bribe of ten

thousand pounds to Colonel Hutchinson to be
tray it into his hands : but the gallant colonel
repelled the offer with manly indignation. If he
had yielded to this temptation he would have
been classed among traitors, and his name would
have been dishonored forever, instead of coming
down to us, as it has come, with a brave and
honest sound.
In this war, the party under Cromwell, who
were called Puritans and Roundheads, be
cause of their being greatly given to praying
and psalming and wearing their hair closely
cropped, contended for civil and religious liberty
and a republican form of government with the
Royalists, who were mostly aristocrats, and who
were called Cavaliers. After a great deal of hard
fighting and hard praying, the Roundheads got
the power into their hands. They put King
Charles I. to death, which they had better not
have done, and made Cromwell Lord Protector;
or rather he made himself so ; for he had a will
and a genius for generalship and government
which nothing could withstand.
But Cromwell died, and left no one great and
power! d enough to succeed him. Then the Roy-

alists came pouring in from France and other
countries whence they had fled or been banished,
and brought with them Charles II., as profligate
a Prince as ever lived, and set him on the throne,
and things went on as bad as ever, till there came
another revolution, and England got finally rid
of the royal family of Stuart, and established a
constitutional government, a strictly limited mon
archy, better suited to a great and enlightened
people. Charles I. was a handsome and elegant
Prince, who suffered meekly all the insult and
hard usage put upon him, and died like a man
and a Christian at last. Though often false and
weak, he was doubtless more to be pitied than
blamed ; for falsehood and weakness ran in the
Stuart blood.
Cromwell was a rough, rude, brawny soldier,
with a big nose, and an ugly wart on his
forehead; but though not always just or true,
though always ambitious, and sometimes unscru
pulous, he taught the world a great new lesson
— that kings have no “ divine right ” to tyrannize
and break faith ; and that they should be made
to answer, not only to God, but to the people, foi
the way in which they govern.

The Cavaliers were gay and gallant gentle«
men, who wore elegant dresses and long curls;
loved good wine and beautiful ladies; sung mer
ry songs in praise of their Prince and in ridicule
of the Eoundheads ; danced well; fought well;
and were altogether very fascinating fellows.
But, as a party, they despised the common
people, scoffed at republican principles of free
dom and justice, and even at religion.
The Roundheads were generally stern-featured,
plainly clad men, who wore long faces, and
spoke through their noses, in Scripture language,
which particularly offended the Cavaliers, who
held that to quote so much from a book of which
they knew nothing was the height of ill-breeding.
In truth, I do not suppose that these Round
heads were the pleasantest sort of people to
meet at balls and merry-makings ; but they were
mostly earnest, honest, determined men, who
fought for what they believed the right; and,
though there were some precious rascals and
hypocrites among them, there were others grand
ly good and true,—such as John Hampden, John
Milton, Sir Harry Vane, Henry Marten, and
Andrew Marvel, — whose memories are still and

ever shall be hated by tyrants and loved by the free;
the wide world over. Amen.
When Colonel Hutchinson went to take com
mand of the fortress of Nottingham he took with
him his young wife, a very clever and spirited
woman, who afterwards wrote an interesting life
of her husband, which yon may read some day.
During the last year of her stay in the castle
Mrs. Hutchinson had under her care a little or
phan relative by the name of Alice Vane—a
beautiful, dark-eyed, sad, and silent child.
Alice was but a babe, too young to grieve,
when her gentle mother died; but within this
year she had lost her father and her only brother,
both of whom had been killed at the bloody bat
tle of Naseby. She had dearly loved her noble
father, who, stern as he was among men, was
always mild and tender towards her ; but she had
utterly idolized her brave brother Walter, so
beautiful, so young; for he was only seventeen
the day of the battle in which he fell.

Alice grieved so bitterly for the loss of these
dear ones that her health suffered. She grew very
pale and thin; and, when she was brought to her
aunt at Nottingham, it was said that she looked
more like a sorrowful little spirit than like a flesh-
and-blood child. She was a strange, shy, melan
choly girl, who in the midst of her grief was sel
dom seen to weep, but always sought some lonely
and silent place in which to indulge her sorrow.
She was a true Puritan — plain in speech and
manner, and though not stiff or stern, always
brave and truthful in heart.
One day, soon after she came to Nottingham,
she was allowed to descend with the warden
into those curious caves and passages underneath
the castle. These she explored with much in
terest, as she had an adventurous, inquiring
spirit; and she fixed upon one little cave, feebly
lit by a fissure in the rock, opening out to the
day, for her own. She persuaded her kind friends
to allow her to spend an hour or two every day
here, taking with her some of her books and
She loved to escape to this quiet spot, from
the sound of endless praying and psalm-singing

and leligious discussions, which she could not.
understand, from the clang of muskets and the
noise of rude soldiers, to read her little Bible, to
repeat her hymns and the simple prayers her father
had taught her, to think of him and her darling
brother, and to weep for them, without being
told that it was sinful rebellion against God to
mourn for those He had taken to himself.
One sunny day, when the light in her cave
was unusually clear, Alice noticed that the wall
in one corner did not seem of solid rock, but
formed of stones piled one upon another.
Little girls were as curious two hundred years
ago as they are now-a-days. So Alice went
to work at once, pulling and heaving with all
her might; and at last the stones gave way, one
after another, and she saw that they had hid a
small, low passage, leading directly down to the
river Leen.
All was dark at first; but after a moment there
was a little gleaming of sunlight and green
leaves at the farther end of the passage. This
was charming, after being so long confined to
the court-yard of a castle, to be able to sit under
the shade of the thick shrubbery, on the banks of

that pretty stream, to gather flowers, and put
her feet in the water, and remember pleasant old
times. So she lost not a moment; but, gathering
her frock about her, and crouching low, she
groped her way carefully downward and stole
out into the sunshine. She found the mouth of
the passage completely hid on the outside by
bushes, and that she, as she sat herself down on
a bank, sweet with violets and bright with cow
slips, could not be seen from the plain below or
the castle above. As she sat there, listening to
the birds, and wondering why it was that they
never seemed to be singing solemn psalms
through their noses like pious Puritans, never
seemed to be preaching or rebuking, but always
trying to cheer her heart with notes of joy and lit
tle melodious laughters, — so sweet, so tender, as
though they were loving aloud,— her eye caught
something gleaming through the foliage near by,
which she took for a bunch of scarlet poppies.
But, going nearer, she found that it was the end
of a silken scarf; and, putting aside some bushes,
she saw that this was a part of the dress of a
young man, who was lying asleep close against
the rock. He was a Cavalier. Alice knew it

at once by his rich velvet doublet, his plumed
and jewelled hat, and his long curls. The scar
let scarf she had first noticed was bound about
his right arm; and Alice now saw that it and the
lace ruffles at his wrist were deeply stained with
blood.- He was a very handsome, gallant-look
ing young man, but so deathly pale, and with so
much suffering in his face, that Alice pitied him ;
and, like the good, brave girl she was, she laid
her hand on his shoulder and shook him gently,
to waken him. He sprang up instantly and half
drew his sword. Alice did not scream, scarcely
moved, but said, very calmly, “ It is only I, a
little girl. What can I do for you, Sir Cavalier ? ”
The young man looked at her doubtfully at
first and questioned her closely; but when he
found that she was quite alone, and that she gave
frank, straight-forward answers, he confided in
her and begged her to help him. He was a no
bleman, Lord Villiers, in the service of the King.
He had been wounded the night before, in a skir
mish near the castle, by a deep sword-cut in the
arm, and stunned by a fall from his horse. His
men, who were defeated, had left him for dead;
but he had revived, a nd in the early morning had

dragged himself to this spot where he had hid,
hoping to be able to escape that night to some
place of safety. But now, he said, he found
himself so weak from pain, loss of blood, and
want of food, that he doubted whether he could
walk at all. Alice advised him to yield himself
up as a- prisoner of war at the castle; but he
swore an oath, that made her shudder, that he
would sooner die where he was.
“ Then,” said she, quietly, “ I must do my best
to conceal you, and nurse and feed you, till you
are well enough to go on your way. Trust in
me, and follow me.”
The Cavalier did as he was bid ; but, before
entering the narrow, dark passage, he held up
the cross of his sword-handle and bade Alice
swear she would not betray him into her uncle’s
hands. But the little lady put it away with a
great deal of dignity, and said, “ I have prom
ised. We Republicans do not need oaths to hold
us to our word.”
Alice took back with her an armful of leafy
branches, and, when they reached her little cave,
spread them down for Lord Villiers to lie upon.
She gave him for a pilow the cushion she had

used to kneel on in her devotions, and laid over
him her own little mantle. She then stole up
Into the castle and got some refreshment for
him and a roll of old linen to bandage his arm-
This she dressed as well as she knew how; then
smoothed his pillow, tucked her mantle closei
about him, advised him to say his prayers like
a good Christian, bade him good night, and left
him to his rest.
Alice had watched her aunt nursing wounded
soldiers ; and the next morning, thinking it very
probable that Lord Vhliers’s arm would be in
flamed, she took down suitable medicines and
dressings. She found her patient tossing and
moaning with fever, and for twe or three days he
suffered a great deal; then she had the happiness
to see him get better and stronger, till he began
to talk and lay plans about leaving her. The
young noble was gentle and grateful, and Alice
grew really fond of him, though it grieved her
that he was a Papist and a Royalist. He was
very familiar and confiding with his little friend,
and told her of his beautiful sister, who was a
great Duchess, and showed her a miniature, which
he wore next his heart, of a still lovelier and

dearer lady; and Alice one day told him her sad
story, in a low, mournful voice, struggling hard
to keep the tears back, while her friend laid his
hand on her head in a soft, pitying way.
At last little Alice brought the joyful news
that a considerable body of Royalist troops were
encamped in the neighborhood; and Lord Vil-
liers resolved to sscape and join them that very
In preparation for this escape, he proceeded
to buckle on his sword-belt, which he had laid
aside during his illness. As Alice sat watching
him, her eye fell for the first time on a jewel-
hilted dagger which he wore under his doublet.
Giving a quick, sharp cry, she sprang forward,
caught this from its sheath, and, holding it up,
exclaimed, “ Where did you get this ? Tell me!
O, tell me!”
The Cavalier was a good deal startled; but
he replied, very directly, “ Why, to tell the truth,
I took it from the body of a young Roundhead
whom I killed at Naseby. 1 did not take it as
a trophy of war, but as a memento of him ;
for, though a mere boy, he was as brave as a

“ You killed our Walter! You ? ” cried xAlice,
in a tone of heart-breaking reproach ; then, sink
ing back, she clasped the dagger against her
breast, and, bowing her head, rocked back and
forth, murmuring, “ O brother! brother ! ”
The careless young nobleman was shocked
and grieved for Alice. He laid his hand on her
head in the old caressing way ; but she flung it
off with a shudder. Then, a little frightened, he
exclaimed, £< Now, Alice, you hate me, and per
haps you will betray me.”
But Alice, lifting her head proudly, replied,
“ Do you Royalists have such notions of honor ?
We Republicans do not know how to break our
word or betray a trust. You are safe ; and you
would have been safe had you killed my father
and everybody I loved in the world; for you
trusted in me.”
They parted, not as enemies, but hardly as
friends ; for Alice could not again shake cordially
the hand that had cut down her beloved, only
brother. She kept Walter’s dagger, and treas
ured it sorrowfully all her life.
Lord Villiers escaped that night and joined
the Royalist troops in safety. He continued to

fight for the King till there was no more hope;
then went over to France, where he remained
until after the Restoration, when he was appoint
ed an officer in the court of Charles II. One of
the first things he did was to inquire for the fam
ily of Colonel Hutchinson ; for he had always
gratefully remembered his young protectress.
He found that the colonel was imprisoned in the
Tower, in very ill health, and that his wife and
Alice Vane, now a young woman grown, were
faithfully attending him. So he wrote to Alice,
telling her how grateful he had ever been for her
goodness and care and brave protection, which
had surely saved his life, and how he hoped she
bore no malice towards him in her heart for the
death of her brother. He went on to say that
he could not rest till he had done something to
repay her for her great kindness ; that he had it
in his power through his wife, (for he was now
married,) and his sister, the beautiful Duchess,
to obtain for her the envied situation of Maid of
Honor to the Queen. He said that, among the
many beauties of that gay court, there was not
one so lovely in his eyes as his dear little protec
tress had promised to be; and that, should she

accept the offered place, a life of luxury and pleas
ure would be before her; for every body, from
the King and Queen down to the pages and fal
coners of the court, would admire and love her
for the beauty of her face and the nobleness of
her character.
Alice Vane replied to Lord Villiers in a frank,
straight-forward letter, with which I will close
this story. You will see that she employed the
plain language then in great use among the Pu
ritans, especially in writing. I have changed the
spelling, which was in the old English style, and
would be a little difficult for you to read.
Dear Friend : It has given me joy to hear by
thy letter that thou art living and wedded to the
maiden thy heart hath cleaved unto so long; but
I am grieved that thou art exposing her and thy
self to the temptations of a most ungodly court.
I have long ago forgiven thee that cruel
sword-thrust which made untimely end of my
comely young brother’s life and of the best joy
of mine, and I have prayed that the Lord in his
exceeding mercy will hold thee guiltless of his
blood. Ye did meet in fair fight; and verily

hadst thou borne thyself less manfully, thou
wouldst have lain in poor Walter’s place.
Thou dost owe me nought for the little service
I did thee. I would have dorie the same for the
poorest man in the realm had he so needed.
Thy gay court is no place for a lowly Chris
tian maiden like me. Thine offer was made in
kindness; but forbear to urge it, lest thou wouldst
have me come to stand before the man Charles
Stuart and warn him to repent of his waste and
wickedness and turn unto the Lord while it is
yet time.
We have been sorely tried by persecutions, loss,
and imprisonment; but the God of Israel hath
been with us in his spirit and his word, and we
have not been dismayed.
I shall tarry with my kinsfolk as long as they
have such earnest need of me; but when I have
release from this dear duty, with a beloved and
godly friend, whom the Lord hath raised up for
me, I shall depart from this unhappy country,
which hath backslidden from liberty and the true
faith, to a land where we may worship in freedom
and in peace. We shall cross the great deep,

to where, in the heathen wilderness of America,
God hath prepared a refuge for his people.
The Lord be with thee and preserve thee amid
all the temptations that beset thee, 'and bring
thee home, if even by sore chastening, to thy
Father’s house at last.
I rest thy friend,
Alice Vane.

Bflrarizj' fysilt.

In the town of War
wick, near Stratford up
on Avon, stands a grand old
castle, built in the feudal
times. It is not in ruins,
like nearly all other English castles of that date,
but is kept in beautiful repair and inhabited by
the Earl of Warwick — one of the richest noble
men in England.
It was on a lovely morning in June that we

visited Warwick Castle. From a pretty carved
stone bridge over the Avon we took our first
view of the gray old walls, the towers and bat
tlements, just enough overgrown with ivy to look
beautiful and not ruinous. Never before had I
seen a building for people to live in half so
grand and noble ; yet often, after reading old
English ballads and romances, I had dreamed
of just such places.
We stopped at the porter’s lodge to wait for
the Earl’s permission to enter. In England it is
not customary to admit strangers to see great
houses when the masters or mistresses are at
home; but, on hearing that one of our party
was an American lady, his lordship immediate
ly commanded that his steward should show us
over the castle and grounds. We passed up a
long, wide passage, cut in the rock, but perfectly
lined with ivy and flowers, visited the summer
houses, and lingered under the shadow of mag
nificent oaks and cedars. The deep moat, once
filled with water for defence, is now drained and
overgrown with grass and shrubbery; but we
crossed it on a drawbridge, passed under a port
cullis into the court-yard, and from thence into

the great hall of the castle. This is a splendid
apartment, with a floor of polished marble and
a ceiling of curiously-carved oak. It is hung
with shining suits of armor and great branching
horns of deer, and has a wide, deep chimney,
with cosy oaken seats in the corners. We were
then shown through long suites of magnificent
rooms, filled with rich furniture, pictures, vases,
statues, and all sorts of beautiful and costly
The steward who conducted us was a tall,
dignified person, very elegantly dressed — a
grander looking man than our President; but
I am sorry to say he spoke very bad English.
He had a way, which I did not like particularly,
of hurrying us away from things which we
wanted to see, and of calling upon us to admire
things which we didn’t take to at all. He looked
most proud and solemn, and talked most elo
quently, when he showed us a gloomy state bed,
hung with faded silk curtains and called “ Queen
Anne’s bed,” because that good-natured, stout,
and somewhat stupid old lady once slept on it.
As we entered a small hall, dimly lighted, I
Biaricd back suddenly ; for at the other end

appeared a proud-looking man on horseback, who
seemed just about to ride down upon us; but at
the next glance I saw that it was a picture —
the portrait of King Charles I. by the great
painter Vandyck.
When we left the castle we found that our
friend the steward did not feel quite so grand as
he looked; for he seemed to be very glad to get
the half crown we gave him for his pains, and
touched his hat to us, or rather made believe he
did, for he was bareheaded at the time.
As we were passing out of the grounds we
were invited to stop at the porter’s lodge, to see
some curious old armor and arms, by the por
tress, whom I thought very hospitable in her
feelings till I found that she expected a fee as
well as the steward.
The armor and arms kept here are of gigantic
size, and are said to have belonged to Guy of
Warwick — a famous knight, about whose his
tory and exploits countless ballads and romances
were written in old times. From some of these
I will try to make out his story in such a way as
to give you amusement, if not profit.

There was once, in the days of the Saxon
kings, a very powerful noble, named Roland,
who was Earl, not only of Warwick, but of
Oxford and Rockingham. He had no son to
inherit his titles and estates; but he had an only
daughter, named Felice, who was a most extraor
dinary young woman, not only on account of
her great beauty and wit, but for her learning,
which was prodigious. In, those times, if a
young lady could sing a song, play a little on
the lute, dance, ride, fly a hawk, work tapestry,
and write her name, she was considered won
derfully accomplished. But Miss Felice had
learned masters, whom her father sent for all
the way to Toulouse, who taught her astronomy,
arithmetic, geometry, geography, and rhetoric;
and she finally astonished all the world by her
Earl Roland had a steward, named Segard—-
a clever, worthy man, who managed the vast
estates of his lord wisely and justly. This Se
gard had an only son, named Guy, a remarkably

beautiful, strong, and courageous young man.
He had been educated as a page to the Earl,
but had been promoted to the office of cup
bearer— a sort of poetic name for waiter. The
first time that Guy was appointed to attend
upon the Lady Felice at dinner he dressed him
self elegantly, for he was a bit of a dandy, and
looked so uncommonly handsome that her lady
ship smiled on him graciously, and said that she
was very happy to make the acquaintance of
such a worthy young man as her papa had often
told her he was. Guy was so agitated at this
kind speech that he spilt a glass of wine he
was pouring for her on her new satin dress. He
was dreadfully frightened at what ie had done,
till Felice said, sweetly, “ Never mind; ” which
showed that she was a very amiablk young lady
Guy Segard seems to have had all the virtues
but modesty. He presently grew so presuming
as to make love to his beautiful and
tress and to ask her to marry him.
learned mis*
The proud'
Felice said “No!” very scornfully; and Guy
took it so to heart that he fell sick with sorrow.
He had the Earl’s best physicians ; but they could

not make out what ailed him, though they all
agreed that he was sure to die; and his simple
old father believed them, and got every thing
ready for the funeral. Then the Lady Felice
thought to herself that matters were getting rath
er serious, and that really something ought to be
done to save the poor young man. So she went
to work and dreamed a dream that an angel ap
peared to her and told her to return the love of
the gallant Guy; and in the morning early she
sent him word that, as soon as he had received
the honor of knighthood and proved his valor in
battles and tournaments, she would be his wife.
On hearing this good news Guy threw away his
physic, drove out his doleful doctors, and got
well directly.
The good old Earl soon after bestowed upon
him the hoiror of knighthood,in this way: Guy,
clad in the richest armor, knelt at the feet of the
Earl, in the presence of the whole court; and
the Earl, striking him gently on the shoulder
with his sword, said, “ Rise, Sir Knight! ” and
Guy, who had knelt down a peasant-page, arose
a gentlemm-soldier.
The nett day he took leave of his father and

mother, of the Lady Felice, and lastly of the
Earl, who certainly behaved very handsomely on
the occasion, furnishing the young knight with
horses and followers and a considerable sum of
money, with which he set out on hiis travels in
search of honors and adventures. Felice felt sad
at first; but she finally consoled herself with sci
ence, and went on studying the stars.
Sir Guy first went into Normandy, where he
presently distinguished himself at a great tourna
ment to such a degree that he wa offered the
hand of the Princess Blanche, the daughter of
the Emperor Reignier. Sir Guy answered that he
was sorry to disappoint the Princess, but he was
already engaged to the most beautiinl and scien
tific lady in the world. Blanche, who was very
pretty, lifted her head proudly and angrily at what
he said about beauty, but dropped itiagain when
he came to the science; for she, poor thing!
could hardly write her name, and didn’t even
know the Multiplication Table.
From Normandy Sir Guy travelled through
Germany, Lombardy, and Spain, fighting in ev
ery tournament, winning every prize! and mak
ing himself more and more famous. Then he

returned to England, where he was received with
flattering kindness by the King. He hurried
down to Warwick, hoping that Felice would
now be ready to marry him ; but the proud lady
was not yet satisfied. She told him to go abroad
again and get more glory; and he went.
But, while waiting on the sea shore for a fair
wind, Sir Guy heard strange stories of the dev
astations of a furious dun cow, so enormous that
her bellow vas like thunder, and her tramp shook
down houses like an earthquake; and, when she
pawed the ground, she dug great pits and raised
vast clouds Df dust.
The people prayed fervently to be delivered
from her; and as for fasting, they were obliged
to do that; for every where she went she eat up
all the grair. Of course Sir Guy buckled on his
armor and :ode forth to slay. He followed the
cow to a vllage, where she went tearing up the
street, jaring down steeples with her bellow,
whisking df chimneys with her tail, and driving
the frightened villagers before her, till she had
them all n the market-place, where she began
tossing tiem on her horns so fast and furious
that whei the knight came up there seemed to

be more people in the air than on the. ground.
But Sir Guy went at her so bravely, and prickea
her so smartly with his lance, that she soon took
flight, and ran bellowing home to her haunt on
Dunsmore Heath. The knight followed at full
speed, and, with a few stout blows [with his tre
mendous battle-axe, put a stop to her cruel sport,
and made happy hundreds on hundreds of poor
I cannot think of relating to you all of the ex
ploits and adventures of Sir Guy dnring his sec
ond tour, which lasted several years
long was he away from his Felice
came near forgetting her and doing 1
wrong. This was how it happened :
Indeed, so
hat he once
her a great
dearing that
the Greek Emperor Ernis was besieged at Con
stantinople by the Soudan with a »owerful ar
my, he went to his help at the head of a thou
sand brave knights. The Saracens dame up in
vast hosts to assault the city; but (ruy, at the
head of his men, went out to meet them with
some terrible engines he had inventedfand fought
himself with such prodigious fiercmess and
strength that the Soudan was defeatld and no
less than fifteen acres were covered withpead Sar

The next day Sir Guy rode out alone to the
Soudan’s camp, to propose to him to have the
conflict settled by a single combat; but the dis
courteous Soudan no sooner heard his name
than he commanded that the knight should be
immediately put to death; but in an instant
Guy drew his sword, and, dashing up to the mon
arch, shaved his head clear off, and, catching it
up with his left hand and fighting with the right,
galloped through the camp and back to the city;
and this finished the war. The Emperor Ernis
was so grateful for all these services that he of
fered him half his kingdom and the hand of his
daughter in marriage. Loret was a beautiful
Princess. Sir Guy consented, and stood up to
be married; when suddenly, at the sight of the
wedding-ring, he thought of Felice, and dropped
the bride’s hand as though it had been a hot
iron, declaring that he could not have her at all.
He then fell down in a swoon, and was so ill as
to keep his bed for several weeks. When he
recovered he still declined to be married; but the
Emperor and Loret, who seem to have been
very good-natured people, treated him just as
well as ever.

But after a while something occurred to make
him feel a little uncomfortable at Constantino
ple, and caused him to leave rather suddenly.
One day, when Sir Guy first came into the
Emperor’s dominions, while riding through a
forest, he witnessed a dreadful conflict between
a lion and a dragon. Now, Sir Guy never would
see a fight of any kind without having a hand
in it; so he put his lance in rest, and, galloping
up to the dragon, pierced him through and
through, and at last pinned him to the ground.
When he had finished the monster he was about
to go at the lion with his battle-axe; when
that ferocious animal showed his gratitude at
being delivered from the dragon by crouching
before the knight and fawning on him like a dog.
When Sir Guy turned to go the lion followed
him, and continued to follow him, watch over
him, and share in all his travels and adventures.
When his master was engaged in combat with
any reasonable number of Saracens at a time
he would stand back and see fair play, feeling
quite sure that the knight would be victorious;
Dutwhen he saw fifteen or twenty attack Sir Guy
at once he would set up a tremendous roar, leap

into the midst of the fight, and soon settle the
matter. Then the knight would pat him on the
head and say, “ Good old Leo ! ” and Leo would
wag his tail, and lick the hand of the knight, and
trot along after him in search of new adven
At the court of the Emperor, Leo became a
/ery great lion indeed, and always created a sen
sation when he appeared in society. The Greek
knights envied Sir Guy his noble favorite, and
would have given any price for him if he would
have been as docile to them ; but faithful hearts
can never be bought. The ladies were desper
ately afraid of him ; yet for the sake of his hand
some master they pretended to admire him, and
said he was “ a love of a pet ; ” but they took
good care to keep out of the reach of his claws.
The Princess Loret once went so far as to lay
her hand on his mane and say, “Good Leo;
pretty Leo ; ” but when he was impolite enough
to reply to her compliment by a roar, though it
was one of his mildest, she fainted quite away
and fell into Sir Guy’s arms.
Sir Guy had a rival, one Sir Morgadour, the
steward of the Emperor, who tried for a long

time to take the brave knight’s life by treachery
and assassination ; for he never had courage to
contend with him singly in fair fight. One day
this cruel and cowardly fellow, seeing the lion
quietly sleeping in an arbor, sent a poisoned ar
row into his breast. Poor Leo had only strength
enough to reach Sir Guy’s chamber and drag
himself to his dear master’s feet, where he lay
groaning piteously, and wagging his tail slowly
and more slowly, till he died. While the knight
stood weeping beside the corpse, a little girl —
for there were little girls in those warlike old
times — came softly in and told him that, while
she was in the garden picking a few figs for din
ner, she saw Sir Morgadour shoot the lion. Sir
Guy had forgiven his enemy every attempt upon
his own life; but he now swore over the bleeding
body of his friend to avenge his death. So,
drawing his sword, he rushed out to seek Sir
Morgadour, whom he found directly; and, walk
ing straight up to him, he immediately cut his
head off—a very severe punishment, certainly,
while it lasted.
As Sir Morgadour’s friends at court looked
olack at Sir Guy after this, or cut his acquaint-

ance altogether, he concluded, as I said, to leave
Constantinople. He travelled again through
Germany and various other countries, fighting
and conquering, defending the right and befriend
ing the weak ; till at last, having won all the glo
ry that was to be had in the world, he returned
to England. First he went to York to pay his
respects to King Athelstan, who was particularly
overjoyed to see him just then, because he had
use for him. There was a monstrous dragon,
black and scaly, winged and six-headed, which
was murdering and eating up people by the score
in the county of Northumberland.
So the King said to Sir Guy, “ My people are
petitioning me every day to deliver them from
this monster. They are always grumbling about
something. It seems to me there’s not much
reason in this complaint, for, if the dragon eats
them, they’ll surely get rid of paying taxes ; but
perhaps, we may as well put an end to the career
of the foul beast; for he might take a fancy to
come to court — which would be unpleasant,
you know. So Guy, my dear fellow, as drag
ons are in your line, suppose you undertake this

The knight bowed low and said, “ Very well,
sire; ” and a few days after he sent King Athel-
stan the dragon’s six heads, with his compli
Then he went to Warwick to see Felice, who
had got enough of science, as he of glory. So
they were married, amid great pomp and re
After this happy event people thought that Sir
Guy would settle down quietly and peaceably
at Warwick. But no : his life there soon seemed
very dull and insipid; and, when his wife talked
to him about science, he yawned and sighed for
new adventures. It may be that Felice attended
more to the stars than to her own household ; it
may be she was not a good pudding-maker; for
in a short time Sir Guy left her and set ou
again on his fighting travels as a knight errant.
Knights errant were roving soldiers, who went
about attending to every body’s business but
their own. There are none of these in our time.
The nearest approach we have to them are a
sort of female knights errant, who go about
meddling and making with their neighbors'
affairs; who meet at tea-tables instead of

tournaments, and tilt with tongues instead of
lances. You can find several of these in every
Lady Felice wept till her bright eyes grew
dim after her husband left her. The stars could
not console her this time ; but a little son who
was born to her did; though at first she wept
more bitterly than ever — he looked so like his
father. She called him Raynburn, and cared
for him lovingly till he was four years of age,
when he was stolen away by some Saracens ;
and, though he grew to be a great knight, his
mother never saw him again. So the poor wo
man had sorrow enough to punish her for all the
pride and vanity of her girlhood.
Sir Guy continued to have many wonderful
adventures; but I have only room for one more.
Once, in Constantinople, he challenged to com
bat an uncommonly brave and powerful knight,
one Sir Barnard ; and, though they fought all day,
neither was victorious. But Sir Barnard was
afraid to meet his foe next day, and in the night,
while Sir Guy slept soundly, had his bed taken
up, with him on it, and flung into the sea. The
waves were calm ; and Sir Guy floated quietly

off, never once starting in his sleep. Early in the
morning he awoke with a strange feeling in his
stomach, which he presently found was sea-sick
ness. He found, also, that he was nearly out of
sight of land. By and by he saw a fishing-boat in
the distance. He waived a sheet as ä sign of dis
tress ; and the fisherman came, took him into his
boat and rowed him back to the city, where, as
soon as he was dressed and armed, he entered
the lists, challenged the astonished Sir Barnard
again, and this time slew him.
After some years Sir Guy went back to Eng
land and visited Warwick in the disguise of a
palmer. He found his wife grown very charita
ble and religious; and, seeing that things were
going on very well, he did not reveal himself, but
went away disguised as he came, having made
a visit more satisfactory to himself than to his
wife. He retired to the forest of Ardenne,
where he spent the rest of his days as a hermit,
growing more and more pious as he grew old
and feeble. When he took to his bed with his
last sickness, he thought it would be a comforta
ble thing to have a wile to nurse him. So he sent
for Felice, who came and nursed him tenderly

till he died. Then, for all that he had been but
a poor vagabond sort of husband to her, she
grieved so bitterly for him that in fifteen days
she died too.
This is all I can tell you of Guy of Warwick ;
but perhaps it is more than enough. Between
you and me, I very much doubt the truth of
some of these wonderful stories, especially the
one about the dun cow. Dragons we read of in
the Scriptures; so perhaps it won’t do to dispute
the possibility of his having killed some monster
of that sort; but who ever heard before of a cow
behaving in such an extraordinary manner, de
vastating whole countries and tossing such mul
titudes of people on her horns ? On the whole,
I am inclined to believe it was a mammoth, or
perhaps only a large Durham bull gone mad.


fminlrt Cattjriiral attii fmk

Lincoln is an old >
old town in the interi
or of England, and was one
of the strongholds of the
ancient Britons, and, after
them, of the Romans, under Julius Caesar. Ro
man walls, pavements, and coins are found in the
city to this day. The greatest curiosities of the
place are the ruins of a fine old castle, prettily
overgrown with moss, ivy, and wall-flowers, and

a magnificent cathedral, built, or rather founded,
by a Bishop Remegeus, somewhere about the
year 1090, but not completed till the year 1380.
So, you see, it is rather slow work building these
immense and splendid churches. This cathedral
stands on a high hill, and can be seen from a
great distance every way. I will not try to give
you an idea of its beauty and grandeur, of its
height and length and breadth, of its splendid
carved arches and enormous pillars, its statues
and gorgeous windows of stained glass. Until
you go abroad you will never see such buildings.
They cost countless sums of money, which the
kings and priests of Catholic countries persuade
or compel the people to raise. Many and many
a poor man has given his last hard-earned penny
for the building of some grand church or monas
tery when his family were suffering for the want of
food and clothing. We Protestants do not believe
that God, our kind Father, requires or is pleased
with such sacrifices from his poor children. We
believe what he tells us in the Scripture, that he
dwells not in splendid temples made by human
hands, but in the pure hearts of all who be
lieve in him and love him.

We went up to the summit of the highest ca
thedral tower and had a wide view over a beau
tiful country. While up there we heard a great
bell strike the hours in a belfry a little way be
neath us. It gave out such a thundrous sound
that the old stone tower trembled frightfully.
But we did not hear the big bell of all. “ The
great Tom,” as he is called, must be a very
grand, aristocratic old bell, as he never rings but
on great occasions, such as Christmas, or a sov
ereign’s coronation. I believe he condescended
to peal out on the birth of the Prince of Wales,
making the old belfry rock again ; but I don’t
suppose he has made any account of the many
Princes and Princesses that have followed.
After we descended from the tower we saw
service performed. There was a grand organ,
that sent its solemn music rolling and swelling
up through the arches and down that vast ca
thedral like great billows of delicious sound.
Then followed the sweetest singing you can im
agine from a band of boys who are carefully
trained for choristers. Afterwards we went out
and walked quite round the cathedral, viewing
it on all sides — no trifle of a walk, I assure you.

The outside is ornamented with a host of stat
ues and figures of all sorts — some very queer
and funny, though they are on a holy building.
There is one of a profligate priest, Archbishop
Blowet, very appropriately blowing a swineherd’s
horn ; and there is another of Satan himself,
who, the old monks used to say, envied them their
grand cathedral; and so, to aggravate him, they
perched him up on a high point, where he could
overlook all the beautiful building. He has a
mean, ugly face and figure, and, besides looking
as spiteful and cross as it is natural for demons to
look, seems ready to die of envy. I am afraid that
the monks who put him up there rather enjoyed
seeing him in such an uncomfortable situation*
for, with all their piety, I don’t think they were
like the kind little boy you may have heard of,
who pitied Satan and called him “ poor fellow,”
because, he said, “ nobody loves him.”
York Minster is a vast and magnificent build
ing, far more beautiful than the cathedral at
Lincoln or than any other that I saw in Eng
land. I wandered through it for hours, wonder-

mg and admiring, never satisfied with gazing up
at its grand arches of finely-carved stone, rising
one above another, supported by immense col
umns, and at the great windows of stained
glass, which seemed to turn all the light of the
day into glorious rainbows. Nor could I ever tire
of listening to the music of the noble organ,
now solemn, now joyful, and the sweet chant
ing of the young choristers, which made me
dream of the great music of heaven and the
singing of the saints in blessedness.
York Minster was founded as long ago as the
year 627, by Edwyn, an Anglo-Saxon King of
the Northumbrians. This monarch was convert
ed from paganism in a rather romantic way;
but he proved a Very true and faithful Christian
for all that.
He wished to marry Edilburga, the daughter
of Ethelbert, King of Kent; but that young
Princess was a Christian, and would not consent
to be his wife, though she liked him very well,
unless he would promise, not only to allow her to
enjoy her religious faith, but to renounce pagan
ism. Edwyn agreed to let Edilburga keep her
belief; but, though very much in love, he was too

wise and honest to promise to give up his own
without knowing what he was going to have in
the place of it. So he told her that he would
examine her religion, and, if it should appear to
him better and purer than his own, he would
adopt it and support it with all his power.
So Edilburga, who relied on his word, came
to York to be his Queen, accompanied by a
learned and eloquent minister named Paulinus,
who talked and argued with the King till be ac
knowledged himself entirely convinced. Then
he called a council of his great men and frank
ly acknowledged his change of sentiments, and
called upon them to examine and adopt the new
This was a very brave and manly deed for a
young King to do. It is always a dangerous
thing to meddle with a people’s religion, if it is
ever so false and bad. It is sacred to those who
believe in it; and those who don’t believe in it
either fear it or live by it; so nobody likes to see
it touched. Now, the armed nobles looked at
one another in silent astonishment; the priests
looked frightened or angry, or drew down their
faces and rolled up their eyes, as though shocked

at the King’s profanity. Edwyn was pale, and
his voice shook a little, but not with fear; for
God strengthened his heart that it did not fail.
A holy light shone in his eye, and he spoke such
wise and earnest words that every honest man
' present felt ready to adopt the religion of Jesus
Wonderful to tell, the first to address the coun
cil after the King was Coifi, the heathen high-
priest, who boldly acknowledged that the deities
he had been serving were worthless and power
less, and declared his willingness to be taught
a better doctrine. Then a noble spoke, saying,
“ O mighty King, of what good is our religion ?
Does it not leave us in thick darkness of igno
rance about the great future beyond this life ?
Like birds that flit about us for a season, then
fly away out of our view we know not whither, so
we for a little while on this earth pass away, and
no eye can follow us. If the stranger can tell
what that life is that begins when our hearts
stop their beating, what our souls behold when
our eyes have ceased from seeing, where they
dwell when the grave has shut over our bodies^
then let us receive his teachings.”

Several other speeches like this were made;
and all the council professed to be of King Ed-
wyn’s opinion.
Coifi, the high-priest, became so excited that
he proposed at once to set about destroying the
heathen temples. So he armed himself and
mounted one of the king’s horses, and, heading
a troop of soldiers, attacked the great temple at
Godmundingham and soon levelled it to the
From that time the people eagerly embraced
Christianity, mostly from honest conviction, but
some, I am afraid, because the King and the no
bility had set the fashion. It is said that for
thirty-six days Bishop Paulinus did nothing from
morning till night but baptize converts ; that on
one day he baptized no less than twelve thou
sand ! I don’t like to dispute any thing I find in
history: I only say that Paulinus appears to
have been a very extraordinary man in his way,
and must have used wonderful despatch.
On the spot where King Edwyn was baptized
he erected a magnificent stone church; but after
his death the pagans got the upper hand and
evelled it to the ground. In the reigns of the

warlike kings that followed, some pious, some
wicked, it was rebuilt and destroyed so often
that it seemed all the time to be either going up
very slowly or coming down very rapidly. At
last, in the year 1216, the present beautiful build
ing was commenced; and in about two hundred
years it was finished. So it is now nearly seven
hundred years old.
The young King Edward III. was married to
the Lady Philippa, of Hainault, at York, in the
year 1328.
Edward was a brave and handsome man, and
a very good Prince, as Princes go; but as for
Philippa, she was one of the most beautiful and
amiable, wise and noble, of Princesses. Even
now men speak her name reverently ; and women
are proud and happy that such a woman has
That was a splendid wedding. Such a mag
nificent procession followed the royal pair into the
minster — all the highest nobility of England and

Scotland ; the parliament and council; Edward’s
beautiful mother, Queen Isabella, with her train
of fair ladies;foreign princes, with their suites; sol
diers, and musicians, and richly-robed priests. The
minster was hung with rich draperies and strewr*.
with flowers. Under the arches stood banners so
thick that they shook and rustled against each
other; and all down the aisles there was a great
clang of swords and armor. But when Edward
and Philippa stood before the altar no one no
ticed the splendor of the scene, for gazing on
their youthful beauty; and every sound was
hushed, that their voices might be heard repeat
ing the solemn words of the priest.
As Queen Philippa was passing out of the
minster, conducted by her husband, she noticed a
plainly-dressed youth leaning against one of the
pillars, whose pale, gentle face somehow struck
to her heart. It was not the admiration she read
in his gaze which made her look at him so ear
nestly, but the great thoughts burning in his
eyes. This was Chaucer, the poet, whose works
we read even now with delight, while the very
names of the grand nobles and princes who sur
rounded him on that day are forgotten.

Philippa continued always to be as good and
sensible as she was graceful and beautiful, and
made the English people an excellent Queen.
From the first she influenced the King to reform
the abuses which had grown out of the infamous
government of his bad mother and her favorite
Mortimer; and she set herself to the work of
improving the condition of the common people
by introducing manufactories into England.
Never before had woollen cloth been made in
that kingdom. She encouraged art and litera
ture also, and was the friend and patroness of
Edward, brave and generous as he was, had a
quick and stormy temper, and sometimes did
cruel things, in the heat of passion, when away
from Philippa. But that gentle Queen, when be
side her stern lord, never failed to plead with him
to be merciful and forgiving. She displayed
this goodness and love of mercy on the occasion
of an accident that happened at a great tourna
ment given to celebrate the birth of her son Ed
ward, afterwards the heroic “ Black Prince.” A
temporary scaffolding fell to the ground, with
the Queen and all her ladies. Nobody was

killed, and very few were hurt; but there was a
prodigious shrieking and confusion ■—those who
were quite unharmed screaming the loudest, of
King Edward, seeing what danger his beloved
wife had been in, flew into a terrible rage, and
vowed that the carpenter who built the scaffold
should instantly be put to death; but Queen
Philippa, though still pale and trembling from
the fright of her fall, threw herself at the feet
of her husband and begged him to spare the
poor man’s life; and Edward yielded to her
Queen Philippa was seldom separated from
her husband, but faithfully accompanied him in
his journeys, wars, and cruises, bravely choosing
to share in all his toils and dangers.
At length, however, the King left her in charge
of the kingdom while he went to make war
upon France. He took with him Prince Ed
ward, who was but sixteen years of age, but
who won much glory at the great battle of
King David, of Scotland, took this opportuni
ty to come down upon England with a mighty

army; but Queen Philippa collected her forces
and met. him at Newcastle upon Tyne. After
her men were drawn up in order of battle she
rode among them, mounted on her white charger,
and entreated them to do their duty to her and
their absent King and to fight manfully for their
country. She then commended them to the pro
tection of God, and retired from the battle-field
to pray for their success; for, brave as she was,
Queen Philippa was no fighter, and shrank from
the sight of blood and carnage.
The English were victorious, and took the
warlike King David prisoner. After Philippa had
got him lodged safely in the Tower of London
she set sail for France, to join her husband at his
camp before the town of Calais, which he had
been besieging for several months.
And now comes the most beautiful incident in
the life of Queen Philippa.
The defenders of Calais became at last so re
duced by famine that they were obliged to capit
ulate. At first Edward declared he would put
them all to death; but his councillor, Sir Walter
Mauny, pleaded with him till he softened some
what and said, —-

“ Tell the Governor of Calais that the garrison
and inhabitants shall be pardoned, excepting six
of the principal citizens, who must surrender
themselves to death, and come forth, with ropes
round their necks, bare-headed and bare-footed,
bringing the keys of the town and castle in their
When Sir Walter bore this message to the
Governor of Calais, he caused the bell to be rung,
which called all the'inhabitants together in the
town-hall. He then related to them, with many
tears, the hard sentence of the King of England.
It was received with groans and cries of grief
and despair. But, after a short pause, the most
wealthy citizen of Calais, named Eustace St.
Pierre, rose and said, “ Gentlemen, both high and
low: it would be a pity to let so many of our
countrymen die of famine; it would be highly
meritorious in the eyes of our Savior if such
misery could be prevented. If I die to serve my
dear townsmen, I trust I shall find grace before
the tribunal of God. I name myself first of the
When Eustace had done speaking, his fellow-
citizens threw themselves at his feet, weeping

and blessing him. Then another rich citizen
rose and offered himself; then another, another,
another ; and finally the young son of St Pierre
f.hrew himself into his father’s arms and entreat
ed to be suffered to die with him; and so the
number was made up. They were delivered
by the - governor to Sir Walter Mauny, who
conducted them to the pavilion of the King,
when they knelt before him, saying that they
came to die for the sake of their fellow-citizens.
The poor men looked so pale and starved, and yet
so brave and noble, that even the stern English
knights and barons wept and pleaded for them,
Sir Walter most of all. But King Edward hat
ed the people of Calais for the great losses they
had made him suffer by sea and by land ; so he
ordered that the headsman should do his duty at
once. Then Queen Philippa flung herself at
his feet and clasped his knees, and begged him,
as a proof of his love for her, and for the blessed
Savior’s sake, to spare the lives of those six men.
As King Edward looked down into her tear
ful face, his own face greWi'söft and tender; for
he remembered how she had looked when in her

beautiful girlhood she had stood by his side at
the altar in York Minster; so he lifted her up
and kissed her, and said, “ Ah, lady, I wish you
had been any where else than here ; but you
have so entreated that I cannot refuse you. I
give the men to you: do as you please with
Then the Queen conducted the six citi
zens to her apartments, had the halters taken
from their necks, had them clad in handsome
clothes and served with a plentiful dinner.
Then she made each of them a present and
sent them home with an honorable escort. I
do not believe that these men ever went to
bed after that day without praying for the
good Queen Philippa, or blessing her memory.
There were many other beautiful acts and
incidents in the history of Philippa of Hainault
which I should like to tell you if I had space for
them ; but I have not.
Through all her life she was amiable, vir
tuous, and useful—tenderly beloved by her
husband and children, and revered by her grate
ful people; so, when God sent his angel Death

to gently lead her away from an earthly king
dom and lift from her head its earthly crown,
it was that she might enter into his kingdom
of rest and wear the crown of his immor

ftetrilnrortji Castle.

Among the grandest
ruins of England are
those of Kenilworth Castle, in
Warwickshire, once one of the
strongest and most magnifi
cent structures of the kind in all the world. It
has been besieged, battered, burned, and defaced
in every possible way ; but it is still very beauti
ful and imposing.
I visited it on a lovely morning in early June

There had been a light shower a little while be*
fore; the grass of the great court-yard was fresh
ened anew; the ivy that decked the broken old
walls, and climbed and swung about the great
high towers, glistened in the sun and waved in a
pleasant wind; and the yellowwall-flowers shed
down their perfume upon us, falling so thick and
so sweet every way we turned that it seemed
like an invisible rain of fragrance. Daisies and
other wild flowers brightened up the grass, and
modest violets smiled out of shadowy nooks ; and
here and there a blooming rose-tree, nestling up
against the crumbling masonry, seemed trying
with all its little might to hide the desolation and
cheer the solitude of the scene.
Flitting every where about the ruins, and
wheeling around the towers, were hosts of rooks
-—black, solemn-lookingbirds, who keep up an in
cessant caw-cawing, a sort of doleful jabbering,
among themselves, which I never could imagine
how they could find amusing or profitable. But
doubtless they understand their own affairs and
their own language best. Perhaps they thought
their melancholy cawing far more dignified and
fitting in that mournful place than the sweet,

Dlithe singing of the blackbirds and the thrushes
that sometimes came to make the lonely air thrill
with their delicious notes and to set all the little
wild flowers trembling with delight; just as some
solemn people in this world think it is most
proper and pious to be harsh and gloomy, and
despise the merry singing of the light-hearted
and the innocent laughter of children.
Kenilworth Castle was built in the reign of
Henry I. by Geoffrey Clinton, a Norman noble..
In the reign of King John it passed out of the
possession of the Clinton family and became the
property of the crown. Henry III., after mak
ing many additions to it, granted it to his broth
er-in-law, Simon Montford, Earl of Leicester.
This Simon Montford afterwards proved a traitor,
and gave King Henry a great deal of trouble by
raising a rebellion. For a time he was victori
ous, and, at the battle of Lewes, took captive
the King and the Prince of Wales. The Prince
escaped, raised another army, attacked and de
feated the rebels. Montford was slain ; and the
remains of his army, headed by his son, fled to
Kenilworth Castle, which was besieged by
Prince Edward, but gallantly defended for six

months; when famine and pestilence obliged the
rebels to capitulate. Thus the castle came
again into the possession of the crown.
The unfortunate Edward II., who got into
so much trouble with his barons because of
his favorites proving insolent and meddlesome,
was imprisoned in the dungeons of Kenilworth
Castle, while his beautiful but bad Queen, Isa
bella, and her favorite, Roger de Mortimer, were
holding a gay court in its halls. Perhaps some
times at night the poor King faintly heard the
sound of music and revelry. Perhaps he wept as
he sat , alone in the cold darkness, remembering
how fondly he had loved that cruel woman, and
listened to catch one tone of her voice, once so
dear to him, though now speaking gentle words to
his enemy; or even to hear the sound of her
dancing feet, though they seemed to be treading
on his heart.
Kenilworth remained the greater part of the
time in the possession of the crown till the reign
of Elizabeth, who bestowed it upon Robert Dud
ley, Earl of Leicester. It was in the time of
this proud noble that Kenilworth reached the
height of its splendor, and really became a

beautiful and splendid palace as well as a pow
erful fortress. In erecting new and magnificent
buildings, towers, and gateways ; in enlarging the
lake which lay near it; in improving the chase,
the parks, and gardens, — he expended no less
than half a million of pounds sterling — about
two millions and a half of dollars.
At this castle, in the year 1575, the Earl of
Leicester received Queen Elizabeth and her
whole court, and entertained them for seventeen
days, in the most princely and costly manner
When this entertainment came off all the
country was turned upside down with delight
and excitement, and every body said that
nothing half so grand had ever happened in the
world, — not even when the Queen of Sheba paid
a friendly visit to King Solomon, — and never
could happen again. In truth there was great
parade and festivity at the castle. There were
players, singers, jugglers, and tumblers from Lon
don, France, and Italy ; there were hosts of gal
lant knights and noble ladies ; there was dan
cing, tilting, hunting, hawking, eating; and I am
afraid there was some pretty hard drinking — at

least this little fact in history looks like it:
“ Over and above the wine and other liquors,
there were drank no less than three hundred and
twenty hogsheads of beer.”
The Earl of Leicester was a handsome, ac
complished gentleman, but a wily courtier. He
sought to win the favor of the Queen, so that
she should choose him for her husband and raise
him to the throne.
But Elizabeth saw his ambitious designs;
and, though she liked him very well, she did not
think he would make a good ruler for the peo
ple. It was said, also, that this great Queen
loved the power and glory of royalty too much to
share them with any man. She certainly refused
to marry Leicester, though he strove and plotted
for years to gain a seat beside her on the throne.
It is even said that he caused a lovely young girl
called Amy Robsart, whom he had privately mar
ried, to be murdered, so that he could lawfully
wed his Queen. But I hope it was not so;
though certainly the poor lady did drop off very
suddenly and mysteriously.
Elizabeth Tudor was not decidedly a good
woman ; but she was one of the best sovereigns

that ever reigned in England. She was brave
and energetic, and gifted with excellent sense
and judgment.
This Queen was the daughter of Henry VIII.
and Anne Boleyn. “ Bluff King Harry,” as he was
called, was a coarse and cruel man, who while he
lived was feared and hated, and when he died
was only not forgotten because the story of his
crimes kept up a shuddering remembrance of him
in the minds of the people. He divorced his good
wife, Katharine of Arragon, so that „he might
marry one of her maids of honor, the beautiful
Anne Boleyn ; but in the course of a year or
two he took a fancy to another lady, and so
he had Queen Anne’s head taken off to make
way for Queen Jane, who, fortunately for her,
died in time to escape the scaffold. He next
married the Princess Anne of Cleves, whom he
divorced for Catharine Howard, who in her turn
was soon obliged to lay her pretty head upon
the block, because it was the King’s pleasure to
have another consort. And so he went on till
all the beautiful young ladies in the kingdom
lived in mortal fear of the crown and the
axe ; and so ne, who were neither beautiful nor

young, professed to be most frightened of
The motherless Elizabeth led but a sad life
during the reign of her sister, Queen Mary, who
imprisoned her and treated her very harshly,
principally on : account of her Protestant faith.
But her own trials did not make her more merci
ful towards others. She seldom forgave her ene
mies, but punished with long imprisonment or
death all rebels and conspirators. When the
Queen of Scots was driven from her own coun
try by the rebellion of her subjects, and sought
refuge in England, instead of granting her hos
pitality and help, Elizabeth piit her in prison.
Mary Stuart was very beautiful; but somehow
this did not seem to help her cause with her
“cousin of England,” who kept her in close
confinement for nineteen years, and then be
headed her.
Of Queen Elizabeth’s 3 last sad days and her
death I have already told you. As for her faults,
after all, there may have been more excuses for
them than we know, and there may have been:
more noble and generous qualities in her charac
ter than we find set down in history. Histori-

ans are usually more apt to re.ate bad than good
things of sovereigns and great people. There is
but one true account of any human life; and
that is the record kept by God’s just angel in
The descendants of the Earl of Leicester sold
Kenilworth to the royal family ; and, when Crom
well became Lord Protector, he bestowed it upon
six of his favorite officers. These Puritan sol
diers made terrible work with it — dividing the
great estate into farms, destroying the parks and
gardens, draining the lake, and making of the
castle a complete ruin ; and a ruin it has remained
ever since.
But now for a little story, which I hope will
interest you.
It was the evening of the day set for Queen
Elizabeth’s visit to Kenilworth. Great multi
tudes of people had been for many hours assem
bled on the walls, in the chase, and park and

gardens, to witness the splendid sight. But her
majesty had been detained till twilight at War
wick to receive the homage of her subjects; and
now it was announced that the grand entrance,
would be made by torchlight. At length the
great bell of the castle tolled and a single rocket
shot up into the air. Then all held their breath
and listened. At first they could only hear a
dull, sea-like sound in the direction of Warwick
Castle ; but it came nearer and grew louder, till
they could distinguish the tramp of horses, mu
sic, and shouting, and the clang of armor.
When the Queen entered the royal chase hun
dreds of great rockets were sent blazing and
hissing into the sky; and such a mighty shout
was set up by the multitude that it was almost
a wonder it didn’t jostle the stars out of their
places. Yet they did not seem at all disturbed
by the tumult, but staid quietly in their orbits,
and winked at one another, as though making
fun of the Earl’s fireworks. The whole music
of the castle burst forth; then there was a round
of artillery and a tremendous discharge of
The procession moved slow and stately from

the gate of the park, illuminated by two hundred
great wax torches, borne by armed horsemen.
The Queen, who was young at that time, and,
though not handsome, was noble and grand
looking, came mounted on a beautiful milk-white
horse, which she managed very finely; for she
was an admirable rider. She was dressed in the
richest silks, velvet, and lace; and from head to
foot she seemed almost blazing with costly jew
els. Beside the Queen rode the Earl of Leices
ter, on a jet-black steed, one of the handsomest
in the world, with trappings of velvet and gold
and silver bits. The Earl was gorgeously
dressed, and glittered all over with gold and
gems. He sat his horse so elegantly, and was so
proud in his bearing, that he might have been
mistaken for a King had he not rode bare-headed
like the rest of the courtiers. After the Queen
and the Earl followed a train of noblemen and la
dies, guards, pages, knights, gentlemen, and sol
diers — a long and splendid cavalcade. On either
side stood a line of people closely packed to
gether, all bowing and shouting their loyal wel
As the Queen was approaching the outer

tower she checked her horse to speak to one of
her ladies; when suddenly there broke, or rather
slid, through the line of soldiers a little girl, who
flung herself at her majesty’s feet and grasped
her robe, crying, —
“ A boon ! Great Queen, a boon ! ”
A rude soldier strode forward and lifted his
broadsword over the head of the child; when,
quick as a flash, a boy, scarcely larger than the
girl, leaped out of the crowd and snatched the
sword from the soldier’s hand, saying, boldly,—
“ Thou art a cowardly knave ! ”
The man turned upon him in rage, caught
back the sword, and might have killed him with
it had not the Queen cried, —
“ Hold, villain ! By my faith, I think the lad
is right. Wouldst butcher babes like these ?
Then art thou one of King Herod’s men, and
none of ours. Stand back ! ”
Then, turning her eyes on the little girl, who
stood trembling at her side, she looked at her a
moment in silent surprise. And well she might;
for the child was as beautiful as an angel. She
could scarcely have been more than ten years
of age. She was very fair and delicate, with a

tender, appealing face, and a voice sweet, but
mournful, like the sound of a wind harp. She
had large, dark eyes, with long heavy lashes;
but her eyebrows were a shade lighter; and her
hair, which was soft and wavy, was of a rich,
golden hue. Now tears were flashing in her
eyes; her red lips were quivering; her cheek
was brightly flushed; her hair gently lifted
from her forehead by the evening wind; and, in
her simple white frock, she looked there under the
torchlight so like a radiant little seraph that the
stern Queen spoke softly to her, almost as though
in fear, saying, —
“ Who art thou ? and what wouldst thou with
“ My name is Rosamond Vere,” answered the
child; “ and I come to put this petition into your
own hands, and to beseech your majesty to
grant the prayer of a poor motherless little girl,
who will pray to God for you every night and
morning as long as she lives.”
The Queen smiled graciously and took the
paper, but said, —
“ This is no time or place to read petitions,
child. Come to the castle to-morrow, at the hour

of twelve, and we will give thee audience. But
tell me, who is thy brave young champion ? By
my soul, he hath a right gallant spirit! ”
“ I do not know, your majesty. I never saw
him before,” said Rosamond.
The boy of whom they spoke had gone back
among the spectators; but on hearing these
words he stepped modestly forward. He was a
handsome lad, with deep, dark, beaming eyes,
and a sort of grand look about his forehead,
which made him seem, for all his plain, peasant
dress, nobler than any young lord or duke in all
that cavalcade.
The Queen smiled on him, and said,—
“ Well, young rash-head, what art thou
called ? ”
“ William Shakspeare, may it please your
“ Marry, a good name, and an honest; and
thou art a brave lad. Doubtless we shall hear of
thee when thou art a man. But now away with
ye both; for it is late for such chicks to be
Then she loosened the reins of her horse and
rode forward with Leicester; and all the proces-

sior noved on again. They passed through the
towfe». over the bridge, and entered the castle,
with n ither peal of music and discharge of ar
tillery, *aid such a terrific irruption of rockets
chat sorrc of the country-women shrieked with
fright, thk.king that the castle and all the great
folks in it v-.-jre being blown into atoms ; some
even fancying that they saw the Queen on her
white horse riding straight up into the air.
Rosamond \ t re went away to Warwick with
some friends, and William Shakspeare went
home to Stratfor«' with his father and mother.
They drove in a r^ agh little wagon ; for in those
days only kings an^ nobles had carriages. Wil
liam sat on a bag jf wool behind his parents.
His head was full 01 the splendors he had seen,
and his heart beat high and fast with pride be
cause of the Queen's praise. He was greatly
excited ; but he was tired also ; and when they
reached home he was found fast asleep on the
The next day, when little Rosamond presented
herself at the castle, she was at once admitted
and conducted to an ante-room, where she had a
few minutes to wait. She met there an elegant

young courtier, one Sir Walter Raleigh, who
kindly instructed her how to conduct herself be
fore the Queen. Above all things, he told her
she must remember never to turn her back on her
majesty, but, when she was dismissed, to go out
backwards: and Rosamond promised to do as
he bade her. Just at twelve she was summoned
by the Lord Chamberlain to the great hall, where
the Queen was holding court. She was seated
on a throne, under a canopy of state. She wore
her crown, and a dress of rich velvet, soft, blue
like the sky, covered with white lace so fine that
it looked like light clouds, and looped up with
great diamonds, that shone like stars.
After having been conducted to the foot of
the throne, Rosamond knelt there, and looked
up timidly into her majesty’s face. Alas ! it was
clouded with a frown.
“ And so,” t exclaimed the Queen, “ thou art
the daughter of that Walter Yere who lately
conspired with other traitors to set our prisoner,
Mary of Scotland, free! He hath deserved
death ; and death he shall have ! ”
“ O, have mercy, gracious madam! ” cried Ro
samond. “My poor father had a tender heart;

and the Queen of the Scots moved it by her
tears and her beauty. O, she is so beautiful, if
your grace would see her you would have pity
on her also.”
Queen Elizabeth blushed deeply, for she knew
in her heart that she was envious of Mary Stu
art’s beauty ; and she said, more sternly than be
fore, —
“ Thy father hath acted traitorously, and must
abide his sentence. Go, child ! ”
But Rosamond, instead of rising, took from
her bosom a small package and placed it in the
Queen’s hand. It was a paper containing a
ring. On the paper was written the name of
Walter Vere^ and a verse of Scripture, signed
“Anne R.” On the ring was engraved a crest,
the arms of the Boleyns.
Queen Elizabeth turned pale as she examined
these, and hastily asked, —-
“ Where got you this ? And this ? - Speak,
girl! ”
“ My father,” answered Rosamond, “ was an
officer in the Tower at the time the Queen, your
mother, was imprisoned there. He Was good to

her; and the night before she was beheaded she
gave him these mementos.”
Elizabeth’s face softened, and a tear shone for
a moment in her cold, gray eye, but did not fall;
then she spoke : —
“ For her memory’s sake we grant thy prayer.
We forgive thy father; but let him see to it how
he again braves our ire.”
She then wrote an order for the immediate
liberation of Walter Vere, stating that she had
granted him a full pardon. This paper she was
about to give into the hands of an officer, to be
conveyed to London ; but Rosamond begged that
she might carry it herself; and the Queen, kindly
assenting, placed her under the charge of the
officer, requesting him with her own lips to be
kind to the child. She extended her beautiful
hand to Rosamond, who kissed it fervently, but
was too much overcome with joy and thankful
ness to speak a word more. She rose up so be
wildered, and in such haste to set out on her
journey, that she quite forgot Sir Walter Ra
leigh’s injunctions, and, turning her back on the
Queen, actually ran out of the hall, much to the
merriment of the gay court.

The rest of Rosamond’s story is soon told.
She went to London and freed her father, who
never got into any trouble of the kind again.
She grew to be a beautiful woman, married a
country gentleman, and lived for many years far
from the great world, but happy and beloved, be
cause always good and loving.

ICottimit onfr fjie Comer.

On the evening of
June 24 I first entered
London. Coming up from
Coventry by the railway, 1
could see little of the great
city till I was in the midst of it. I oniy re
member seeing in the distance a great cloud of
smoke overhanging a dim, vast multitude of
houses, towers, and spires ; then, as we drew
nearer and the darkness deepened, hosts of lights,

as innumerable as though all the stars had
dropped out of heaven, began to twinkle, and
flash, and throb, and waver ; and then, above
the clang of the engine and the rush of the
train, I could hear a strange, dull, unceasing
roar. This was the noise of the travel and
traffic of London — sounds that are never wholly
hushed, but in the daytime thunder like torrents
and cataracts, and in the night come to your ear
with a hoarse, heavy swell, like the beating of
.the sea against a far, rocky shore.
In truth there was something almost fright
ful in this first rush, and roar, and vastness of
London to me, coming to it as I did at night.
But when I found myself in a beautiful station,
roofed with glass and.cheerfully lighted, and met
there a kind friend Who was awaiting me, I took
heart at once; and when, an hour later, I sat
with my dear friends, the L- s, in their pleas
ant drawing room, chatting and drinking tea, I
felt as contented and happy as I had ever felt in
my life.
I Was several weeks in London on this first
visit, and during that time I saw many people —
authors and artists, and statesmen and philan-

thropists — whom I had long loved or honored
for their works and their noble deeds; and I saw
others, of whom I had hardly heard before,
whom I learned to love and honor with all my
It will not be possible for me to describe to you
all the great sights of London; but I will tell
you something of the most noted.
We will begin with
This famous fortress and ancient palace stands
on the north bank of the Thames, just beyond
the limits of the city. It is a large, irregular
building, of dark-gray stone, with four corner
turrets and two entrances — one by a bridge
over the moat, and the other by a gateway from
the river. This last is called the Traitor’s Gate,
as state prisoners were obliged to pass through
it. The older portion of the tower was built by
William the Conqueror; but nearly every suc
ceeding sovereign, down to a recent reign, made

additions and improvements. It passed from 9
palace into a fortress, from a fortress to a prison;
and now it is used only as an armory and a safe
depository of state papers, rare and curious relics,
and the crown jewels, called the Regalia.
Near where visitors now enter, the royal mena
gerie was kept until a few years ago, when it
was removed to the Zoological Gardens. Here
King James I. once witnessed a fight between a
lion and three dogs, and seemed highly amused
by the sport. If we were not talking of a crowned
King, I should say he showed very cruel and vul
gar propensities.
In the Bell Tower the Princess — afterwards
Queen — Elizabeth is supposed to have been
confined. She was imprisoned by the order of
her sister, Queen Mary, on the charge of treason,
of which she was quite innocent. When the
stern guards brought her to the Traitor’s Gate
she refused to land there; but, when they rough
ly reminded her that she had no choice, she
stepped proudly up on to the stair, and said,
solemnly, —
u Here landeth as true a subject, being a pris*

oner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before
thee, O God, I speak it, having none other friends
than thee.”
Opposite to the Traitor’s Gate is the Bloody
Tower— so called because it is believed that in
it the poor young princes, sons of Edward IV.,
were murdered by the order of their cruel uncle,
the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III.
In the Beauchamp Tower Lord Dudley, the
husband of Lady Jane Grey, Robert Dudley,
Earl of Leicester, and many other eminent pris
oners were cpnfined. The Lady Jane was im
prisoned in the Brick Tower. The Bowyer
Tower is said to have been the scene of the mur
der of the Duke of Clarence by order of his
brother, Richard of Gloucester.
There is a long apartment called the Horse
Armory, where I saw a great many figures of
knights clad in complete suits of mail, mounted
and armed. These figures represent the fashions
and the monarchs or great men of every reign
back to that of the first Edward. It is a very
interesting hall, but not so much so as the one
in the White Towei, called Queen Elizabeth’s
Armory. This contains a vast variety of curious

old weapons of warfare, such as battle-axes, lances,
pikes, ponderous broadswords, halberds, glaives,
and crossbows. Here is kept the beheading-
block, darkly stained with blood and cut by
many a deadly blow. Beside it leans the heads
man’s axe, now blunt and rusty, but which was
doubtless keen and bright when it severed the
proud head of the Earl of Essex from his body
and struck through the slender neck of poor
Anne Boleyn. But more dreadful to behold
even than these are the instruments of torture.
These are horrible weapons and machines
used to extort confessions from criminals and
suspected persons. The sight of them made
me shudder and grow faint; the thought of
them has ever since been painful to me; so, if
you please, we will talk of other things.
At the farther end of this hall there is a figure
of Queen Elizabeth on horseback, dressed as she
was when she went to St. Paul’s to return thanks
for the destruction of the Spanish Armada
which'had been sent against England.
Out of this hall opens the gloomy little room
in which Sir Walter Raleigh was confined during
his long imprisonment in the reign of James L

And now I will tell you some stories of the
Tower, begining with a brief life of
Walter Raleigh was the younger sou of an
ancient and honorable family, Who lived at a
fine old country seat called Fardell, near Plym
outh. He Was born in 1552. At an early age
he showed such extraordinary talent that his
father, who was an excellent scholar, educated
him very carefully, and took much pride in the
wonderful advances he made in all branches of
learning. At the age of sixteen he entered Ox
ford, where he soon gained a great reputation for
scholarship. But in a little more than a year he
left college and entered the army, having volun
teered to join a noble expedition fitted out by
the order of Queen Elizabeth to aid the perse
cuted Huguenots in France.
Like a good son, he first returned home to re
ceive his father’s blessing and his mother’s fare-
"weU kiss. His proud father gave him a fervent
benediction; his gentle mother kissed him ten-

derly; and when she had followed him down
to the court yard, and seen him mount his fiery
steed and ride away with his pretty page and
faithful esquire, she ascended to her chamber in a
turret and watched him from the window as long
as she could see the waving of his white plume,
and wept and prayed for him, and then sat alone
a long time, thinking of all the pleasant past,
and wondering if her darling son would come
back to her from the wars unchanged, still her
own good, beautiful boy — if she would ever see
him again.
Walter Raleigh was abroad on this dangerous
and toilsome service five years. Then, after a
visit to his home, he made a campaign in the
Netherlands, and the next year embarked on his
first voyage to America with his half-brother,
Sir Humphrey Gilbert. They unluckily encoun
tered a large Spanish fleet, and were defeated.
Walter reached England just in .time to head an
expedition to Ireland to put down an insurrec
tion raised by the intriguing Spaniards. Here
he was successful, and so distinguished himself
by his bravery that he was appointed to the gov
ernment of Munster and Cork.

But matters becoming too quiet in Ireland to
suit his restless, daring spirit, he returned to Eng
land, and went to court, “ to seek his fortune,”
as they say in old fairy-stories.
He was then a remarkably handsome and ac
complished gentleman, with elegant manners
and a great taste for splendid dress.
For some time he did not succeed in his ob
ject, as he was not very wealthy and had no
great friend to present him to the Queen. But
Fortune favored him at last. One day he was
so lucky- as to meet her majesty walking out
with her courtiers and ladies. The Queen was
magnificently dressed in satin and velvet, and,
as usual, was loaded with costly jewels. Around
her neck was a stiff ruff of rich lace, full a foot
wide ; and her hair, of a reddish yellow, — called
by the court poets “ golden,” — was confined by
a net of pearls and diamonds.
It was Raleigh’s first view of the Queen
He was quite awe-struck by her grand manner,
and so dazzled by her gorgeous dress as almost
to think her beautiful. His brave heart, that
had never failed him in battle or on the stormy

seas, now fluttered wildly in his breast like a
frightened bird. Such was English loyalty in
the olden time.
It had been showery that morning, and a lit
tle pool of water lay just across her majesty’s
path. As she came to this she paused, not be
ing willing to spoil her gold-wrought slippers or
risk getting a cold. Just as her minister, Lord
Burleigh, was advising her to turn back and take
another path, Walter Raleigh stepped forward,
and, bowing very low, took from his shoulders
his new court cloak of purple plush and spread
it over the muddy place. The Queen smiled
graciously on the young stranger ; for she was
pleased with his gallantry and ready wit, and not
displeased with his elegant air and handsome
face; then, setting her foot on the cloak, she
walked daintily over it to the dry ground.
After she and her gay train had passed by,
Raleigh took up his fine new cloak, now quite
ruined. But almost as soon as that mud dried
it seemed to turn to gold dust for him ; for his
gallant act won the kind regard of the Queen;
and that brought fortune.

One day, being in one of the halls of the pal
ace, he wrote on the glass of the window, with
his diamond ring, the following line : ; —
“ Fain -would I climb; but yet I fear to fall.”
Elizabeth observed him; and the next morn
ing, much to his surprise and joy, he found
this line, written underneath his, in the Queen’s
own hand : —
“ If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all.’
From this time Raleigh knew that Queen
Elizabeth was disposed to befriend him, and he
rapidly rose to the highest favor. For a while
he was very happy, and I am afraid a little
proud. It seemed to him to be a grand thing to
be one of that great Queen’s chosen friends ;
to have her confide in him, ask his advice, and
praise his wisdom and eloquence ; to receive ti
tles and honors, to dress splendidly and live
sumptuously, and be followed and flattered
by a crowd of courtiers almost like a reigning
He went down to Fardell about this time for
a little visit, where' he talked a great deal of the
12 ' '

Queen and the great people at her court; anc
every body wondered and admired, and was daz
zled and delighted, except his mother. She was
strangely sad and anxious; for she feared that
this sudden favor and fortune would excite envy
and ill-will, and that his own bold, adventurous
spirit would bring on trouble and reverses. And
then —though he was still good and loving—
she saw that his old home-looks and ways were
gone. She did not take to his fine court dress ;
and the night after he went away she unlocked
an old chest and took out a faded school-boy
suit, which he had worn when he first went away
from home, and wept over it, and felt that the
great world had indeed got her dear boy away
from her, and that she could never, never have
him back again.
After a while Walter Raleigh found that these
same flattering courtiers were his secret enemies,
plotting against him. He became restless and
uncomfortable, and set out on another voyage.
He was again unsuccessful, but no wise discour
aged, and in the following year fitted out two
ships and sailed for the New World. This time
he discovered Virginia and founded a colony

k wd.ti Raleigh, I grieve to say, who first in
troduced the savage habit of smoking into civil
ized society; for it was on his return from this
voyage that tobacco was first brought to Eng
land. It is related that one morning, shortly
after'he reached home, his servant coming into
his library with a foaming tankard of ale, on see
ing him sitting in a cloud of tobacco-smoke was
so frightened by the strange sight that he threw
the ale at his head to extinguish him, and, rushing
down stairs, proclaimed that his master was on
For several years Raleigh continued to make
voyages of discovery and conquest, and gained
great treasure and honor for himself and his coun
try. Queen Elizabeth Was grateful to him : she
knighted him, and bestowed upon him new
offices of trust and large estates.
Sir Walter Raleigh, as we will now call him,
continued to be noble and upright, and never
used his influence with his sovereign except for
good and just purposes. He wa3 honest and
independent, and, whenever he differed from the
Queen in opinion, told her so frankly. He so
often interceded with her for those whom he

thought unjustly imprisoned or condemned that
she once exclaimed, impatiently, —
“ Sir Walter, when will you cease to be a
beggar ? ”
“ When your majesty ceases to be' a benefac
tress,” he answered.
Yet, for all the Queen’s partiality for him, she
was fearfully angry at his presuming to love and
woo, without asking her consent, one of her
maids of honor, the beautiful Elizabeth Throck
morton, and imprisoned him and his wife for
several months in the Tower.
But she afterwards pardoned them, and again
showered smiles and wealth upon Sir Walter.
I do not know whether, with such a beautiful
young wife, he cared very much for the elderly
Queen’s smiles; but money never came amiss to
him; for he lived very extravagantly, and had al
most as great a passion for costly dress as Queen
Elizabeth herself. He tilted in silver armor:
his sword and belt were set with diamonds,
pearls, and rubies: on great occasions he ap
peared at court wearing thirty thousand pounds
worth of jewels.
For the next eight or nine years Sir Walter

Raleigh’s life was full of successes, conquests,
and honors ; but after the death of Queen Eliz
abeth all went badly with him. His enemies
influenced James I. against him ; and he was so
slandered and persecuted that he joined in a
wild conspiracy to place the Lady Arabella
Stuart on the throne. For this he was arrested,
tried, and sentenced to death. The King, how
ever, reprieved him, but kept him imprisoned
in the Tower for twelve years. Here it was that
Sir Walter Raleigh best proved that he was a
great and good man. He did not sink down
in sullen despair and mope away his melan
choly days, but went to work diligently and
cheerfully for the good of the world. He wrote
several noble works, and showed himself to be
a rare scholar, a philosopher, an historian, and a
At length he was released, but not formally
pardoned. He found himself poor, forsaken by
his old friends, and still persecuted by his foes.
Yet his great courageous heart did not fail. He
undertook a new voyage to Guiana — King
James granting him a commission, in the hope
of his bringing back much treasure* But

through treachery, and the folly of James him
self in revealing the secret of the expedition to
the Spanish minister, Raleigh suffered a dis
astrous defeat. In an unequal fight with the
Spanish forces he lost his beloved eldest son.
Returning almost heart-broken to England, Sir
Walter was again arrested and committed to
the Tower.
A set of wicked old judges, who only cared to
decide as the King wished, and forgot that God
would judge them, decided that the sentence of
death pronounced upon him fifteen years ago
was still in force, and should be executed. Sir
Walter defended himself with wonderful elo
quence ; but it was of no use. He was again
condemned, and the very next day was led to the
scaffold. He died grandly as a brave soldier,
but meekly as a true Christian. After address
ing the multitude, he took the axe from the
beadsman and felt its edge, saying, “’Tis a
sharp medicine, but a sure cure for all ills.” He
laid his head upon the block as calmly as
though it were a pillow, and commended his
soul to God as serenely as though saying
his nightly prayer. The headsman was so

touched with reverence and pity that he hesi
tated to do his dreadful duty. Seeing this, Sir
Walter said, “ Strike, man — strike!” And he
When that noble head — grown gray in toil
and study, care and hardship — rolled upon the
scaffold, a dismal groan went up from the crowd.
Only selfish and ambitious courtiers had envied
and hated Raleigh ; the people had always loved
and honored him; and many there were that
wept for him that day and prayed that his soul
might rest in God.
On the night before his execution Sir Walter
Raleigh wrote a very affecting letter to his be
loved wife, with some portions of which I will
close this history: —
“ You shall receive, my dear wife, my last
words in these my last lines. My love I send
you, that you may keep it when I am dead;
land my counsel, that you may remember it when
I am no more.
“I would not, with my will, present you sor-
ows, dear Bess: let them go to the grave with
me and be buried in the dust. And, seeing

that it is not the will of God that I shall, see
you any more, bear my destruction patiently
and with a heart like yourself.
“ First, I send you all the thanks that my heart
can conceive or my words express for your many
labors and cares for me, which though they
have not taken effect as you wished, my debt to
you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in
this world.
“ Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you bear
me living, do not hide yourself many days, but
by your labors seek to help the miserable for
tunes of your poor child.
* * # * *
“ To what friend to direct you I know not;
for mine have left me in the true time of trial.
Most sorry am I that, being thus surprised by
death, I can leave yo.u no better estate. God
hath prevented all my determinations — that
great God who worketh all in all; and, if you
can live free from want, care for no more; for the
rest is vanity. Love God : in him you shall find
true and endless comfort. Teach your son also
to serve God whilst he is young, that the fear of
God may grow up in him; then will God be a

husband to you and a father to him — a hus
band and a father that can never be taken from
“ Dear wife, I beseech you pay all poor men.
* * * Remember your poor child for his
father’s sake, who loved you in his happiest es
tate. I sued for my life ; but it was for you and
yours that I desired it; for know it, dear wife,
your child is the son of' a true man, who in his
own respect despiseth Death and his misshapen
and ugly forms.
“I cannot write much. God knows how
hardly I steal this time when all sleep ; and it is
also time for me to separate my thoughts from
the world.
“ Beg my dead body, which living was denied
you, and either lay it in Sherbourne, or in Exe
ter church, by my father and mother.
“ I can say no more. Time and death call
me away. The everlasting God, powerful, infi
nite, and inscrutable, God Almighty, who is
goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you
and yours, and have mercy on me, and forgive
my persecutors and false accusers, and send us

to meet in his glorious kingdom. . My dear wife,
farewell! Bless my boy, pray for me, and let
my true God hold you both in his arms.
“ Yours that was, but now not my own,
“ Walter Raleigh.”

•Cjjj Cnttter, rrnititrart.

» On a pleasant morn
s'-: ing in the merry month
of May, when the scent of
the blossoming hawthorn
filled all the air of England
with delicious sweetness, and roses, violets, and
honeysuckles seemed striving which should look
the most beautiful and make the most fragrance,
two little girls were sitting under the shade of a
laurel tree, near the basin of a fountain, in the

garden of a grand old country residence called
Bradgate, in Leicestershire. The names of
these two young misses were Jane and Catha
rine Grey. They were the daughters of the Mar
quis of Dorset, — afterwards Duke of Suffolk, —
and Lady Frances Brandon, who belonged to the
royal family, being a niece of Henry VIII. So,
little girls as they were, they bore the title of
The eldest, Lady Jane, was about twelve
years of age — Lady Catharine a, year or two
younger. Both were beautiful and amiable, but
very unlike. The Lady Jane was quiet, thought
ful, and remarkably fond of study; while the
Lady Catharine was a restless, fearless, light
hearted child, who loved many things better
than she loved her books. Lady Jane was al
ways happy when at hard study, or receiv
ing instruction from her masters, especially
from her favorite tutor, the good and learned
Roger Ascham, under whoso teaching and gui
dance she became celebrated for her learning in
the languages, sciences, and religion. She was
an earnest Protestant, and was ' always able to
give a reason for the faith she professed.

The Lady Catharine, though a good and do*
eile pupil, fell far behind her sister in her attain
ments. She could hardly be said to have been
fond of study ; but she endured it very well. In
truth, like a few — I trust a very few — little girls
in our own country and time, she often preferred
play to books. She had such a passion for the
open air, the wooded park, the breezy downs,
the murmur of winds among the trees, the wild
melody of the birds, the plash of fountains, the
tinkle of pebbly brooks, the glow of sunshine,
and the beauty of flowers, that her school-room
too often seemed to her a dreary, weary place of
confinement; and she used to pity herself, as a
poor helpless prisoner in the dungeons of the cru
el giant “ Useful Knowledge,” and think herself
very hardly used indeed. Alas ! the time came
when she better knew what imprisonment was.
This was the morning of a holiday. Lady
Catharine had been running about the garden
and grounds, chasing butterflies, mocking the
birds, and dancing to the dash of the waterfall •
and now she had just returned with her arms
full of roses, lilies, and glossy laurel leaves ; and
flinging herself down, all flushed and panting,

upon a bank of violets by the side of her grave
sister, she exclaimed, half petulantly, half lov*
“ I prithee, Jane, lay aside that tiresome Greek
book. Thou wilt mope thyself to deatli over
thy dull old Plato. Certes, sister, I marvel much
thy tender conscience will allow thee to so batter
thy poor brains and waste thy precious time
over knotty heathen philosophies.”
The Lady Jane shook her head reprovingly,
as she replied, —
“ Ah, Kate ! Kate ! thou art a froward and a
naughty child to speak thus saucily of the ‘di
vine Plato,’ as Master Roger Ascham nameth
“ Master Roger Ascham,” said Lady Cath
arine, “ is tiresome too; and Master Harding
and Master Aylmer are also exceeding dull and
prosy. I would that thou and I and our cousin
Edward had never seen a word of Greek ör Latin,
but could barely read and write our own home
ly English. Methinks we should then have been
freer and merrier, and led sensible, Christian
lives, like — like — the birds and the deer.”
“ Sister,” said the Lady Jane, gravely, “ me-

thinks it is time thou shouldst speak less famil
iarly of the King’s majesty, the high and mighty
Edward VI.”
“ Why, sister dear,” said Lady Catharine,
with a proud toss of her pretty head, “is he not
our cousin ? and are we not also of royal
blood ? I ween the honor is not all on our side.
Thou mayst ‘ King’s majesty’ him as much as
it pleaseth thee; but as for me, I will say ‘ our
cousin Edward’ till he does an unprincely act,
and then I will disown him.”
“ Thou wilt, wilt thou ? Marry, thou hast a
bold spirit, coz!” exclaimed a pleasant voice
behind them. Both started, looked round, and
blushed. Then Lady Jane rose suddenly and
bent one knee in joyful homage ; but the wilful
Lady Catharine only bowed her head till its
golden curls fell over her laughing eyes, and
pointed to her lap full of flowers as an excuse
for not rising.
The visitor was the young King, Edward VI.
It was in the second year of his reign, and he
was about eleven years of age. He was a slen
der, delicate boy, with a mild, thoughtful face,
and nothing very kingly in his appearance except

his dress, which was extremely costly and ele
gant. In his early childhood he had often visit
ed and played with his cousins, the Ladies Jane
and Catharine Grey; and when he was called to
the throne by the death of his father, Henry VIIL,
he still continued his friendship, preferring them
to his proud sisters, the Princesses Mary and
Elizabeth. Now, having made a formal visit to
their noble parents, he had chosen to search for
them in the' garden unattended. He found them
without much difficulty; for even titled little
girls —little girls with royal blood in their veins
— do not always laugh and talk as softly as
they should.
The boy-king first gallantly lifted the Lady
Jane and kissed her on both cheeks; then he
kissed Lady Catharine and pinched her ear, say
ing that she was the sauciest Kate in all his
kingdom; and then he seated himself be
tween the sisters and began talking in a grand,
lofty style, which Lady Jane thought very
proper for a monarch, but which rather amused
Lady Catharine. He complained that the cares
of state, and the pomp, forms, and labors of roy
alty, so absorbed him that he had little time for

recreation — scarce two hours in the day to give to
his old favorites — Cicero, and Plato, and Virgil.
And then he asked how his fair cousins got on
with their classics.
“ Well and ill,” answered Lady Catharine;
“ sister the first, I the last. In sooth she does
not miss thee in her study half so grievously as
I miss thee in my play; for thou wert right
blithe of heart and mirthsome of speech ere thou
didst become a great King.”
As Lady Catharine said this she looked up at
the slender boy in an arch, quizzical way he
didn’t quite like. So, to turn the talk from him
self, he said, —
“ Prithee, Kate, what art thou weaving ot
those flowers ? ”
“ Marry, royal cousin, a wreath for our grave
Lady Jane, to make her look blither for our holi
day ; and, now it is finished, thou thyself shalt
crown her.”
“ I’faith, right willingly will we assist at the
coronation of so fair a queen of the May,” said
the King; and taking the wreath, woven of
roses, lilies, and laurels, he lightly laid it on the
brow of his cousin. But it proved to be much

too large for her delicate head; and, being very
heavy, slid down over her face and hung about
her neck.
The three children laughed at first; but when
King Edward, in removing the wreath, accident
ally wounded his cousin with a sharp thorn hid
among the roses, which made a cruel scratch
across her white throat, they all became serious.
The thoughtful Lady Jane, while wiping away
the blood, moralized about crowns being perilous
things, till she saw that King Edward looked a
little uncomfortable, when she dropped the sub
ject and took up Plato; and presently the two
young pedants got deep into a solemn Greek dis
course, and made believe they understood it all
and liked it as well as though it were an Eng
lish ballad or a fairy tale; but I very much
doubt if they did.
Lady Catharine wandered off by herself wher
ever the sunshine seemed the brightest or the
birds sang sweetest. Suddenly, at a turning of
a sheltered garden walk, she met two gay young
courtiers belonging to the King’s suite. They
were sauntering idly along, with their gilded
spurs jingling and their jewelled swords clang*

ing at their sides. The youngest, who was a
bold, reckless boy, seeing the Lady Catharine
unattended, and not knowing her, started for
ward and addressed her in a light, familiar tone.
But his companion drew him aside, and, lifting his
own richly-plumed hat, bowed low as the fright
ened girl passed quickly by ; though neither did
he know that she was a titled lady. If he had
thought that she was only the gardener’s daughter
it w’ould have been all the same. Some years
after Lady Catharine Grey knew both these
young noblemen. The eldest was the Earl of
Hertford; and the youngest was Lord Herbert,
son of the Earl of Pembroke.
As Lady Jane Grey grew towards womanhood
she retained her love of study and became more
and more famous for her learning. Her masters
said that she spoke French, Italian, Latin, and
Greek with ^astonishing fluency, and read the
Hebrew, Chaldee, and Arabic. But you know
we can make some allowance for masters. Those
worthy men may have been tempted, for their
own credit as tutors, to make her out a greater
prodigy than she was. They may have merely

introduced her to some of those venerable old
tongues, if they did not throw in a language or
two in making up the list. But, without doubt,
she was a very learned young lady for those times,
and, what was better, very amiable, pious, and
benevolent. Poor people loved her, and the
great people of the court honored her — a good
deal on her own account, but mostly because the
King set the fashion.
As for Lady Catharine, she continued the
same proud, wayward, mirthful girl till great
sorrows bowed her brave spirit and saddened
her merry heart.
At the age of sixteen Lady Jane Grey was
married to Lord Guilford Dudley, son of the
Duke of Northumberland. The wedding was
one of great pomp and splendor; and every
body said that so beautiful a bride and bride
groom had never been seen at the English court.
On the same day the Lady Catharine was be
trothed — against her will I hope — to Lord
Herbert, son of the Earl of Pembroke.
Lord Guilford Dudley was very young, but a
brave and gallant nobleman : and Lady Jane
loved him fondly, and looked forward to many

happy years as his wife. But her father-in-law
the ambitious Duke of Northumberland, had
other views for her.
That very year the health of King Edward,
which had never been very robust, began to de
cline alarmingly fast. The gentle boy was very
much under the control of his favorite adviser,
the Duke of Northumberland, and by him was
persuaded to make a will setting aside the rights
of his sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, and appoint
ing his beloved cousin, Lady Jane Grey, his suc
cessor to the throne.
The young King did this, not because he was
wanting in affection for his sisters, but because
he thought that Lady Jane, being an enlightened
Protestant, would be a better sovereign for the
English people than the Princess Mary, who was
a bigoted Catholic—or the Princess Elizabeth
in whose religious principles he had little confi
On the 6th of July, 1553, the amiable young
King died at his palace at Greenwich. Two
days after the Duke of Northumberland and
other great Lords waited on the Lady Jane at
Sion House to inform her of his majesty’s death,

to acquaint her with his last will, and to offer
her the crown and sceptre, hailing her as the
Queen of England.
At the first announcement, the poor, timid girl
was so overcome by surprise, grief, and terror
that she fainted and fell to the ground.
Her father raised her and placed her on a chair
>f state ; and as soon as she had revived all knelt
n homage before her, while Northumberland rever
ently proffered her the crown. This she refused
again and again with tears and strong protesta
tions, though her proud mother wept, and her stern
father commanded, and Northumberland argued
and stormed. But when her husband stepped
forward and took her hand, and looked pleading
ly into her eyes, and begged that she would ac-
jept the crown for his sake, and when they
promised her that lie should have a seat beside
her on the throne and share in all the power and
glory of royalty, she felt her loving heart give
way, and said, sadly, “ Do with me as thou
wilt; but, 0 Guilford, my soul misgiveth me
that no good will come of such as I aspiring to
so high an estate. If you love me truly, sweet
friends, you will rather wish me a secure and

quiet fortune, though mean, than an exalted con
dition, exposed to the tempests, and to be fol
lowed by some dismal fall.” Then, sinking on
her knees, clasping her hands, and raising her tear
ful eyes towards heaven, she said, fervently, —
“If the right be truly mine, O gracious God,
give me strength, I pray most earnestly, so to rule
as to promote thy honor and my country’s
On the very same day that Jane was pro
claimed Queen in London, Mary was proclaimed
at Norwich. Then commenced the straggle and
the fighting. For a while it was doubtful which
of the two the people would favor. The major
ity would have probably preferred a Protestant
sovereign ; but the English people have always
had a remarkable reverence for Kings, and the
children of Kings, and for the blood royal, where
it runs richest and thickest ; and so the Princess
Mary, daughter of that kingly Bluebeard, Hen
ry VIII., and Katharine of Arragon, carried it
over simple Lady Jane, daughter of Henry Grey
and Frances Brandon. After a troubled reign of
ten days, Queen Jane was informed by her fa
ther that her cause was losi — that she must lay

down her crown, take off her royal robes, and re
tire to private life.
Lady Jane received this news meekly, almost
joyfully; returned to Sion House with her hus
band, and began again to dream of a happy life
of love, and peace, and usefulness. Alas! it was
never to be in this world.
By Queen Mary’s command, she was soon
after arrested and committed to the Tower. Her
husband, her father, the Duke of Northumber
land, and many other friends were also impris
oned there. Of these all were pardoned except
Northumberland and “ Guilford Dudley and his
wife,” as Queen Mary slightingly called them.
The two last were kept in separate and strict
confinement for nearly eight months, when the
Queen signed their death warrant.
The Lady Jane had borne all the sorrow and
humiliation of her lot with the utmost patience
and sweetness. Among the hardest of her trials
were the persevering efforts made by the Queen’s
priests to persuade her to renounce her Protestant
faith and become a Roman Catholic; but the no
ble woman stood firm to her sacred principles, and
heeded neither threats nor entreaties. When sen-

tenee of death was pronounced against her, the
priests redoubled their zeal and arguments; but in
vain. Nothing moved her calm soul from its deep
trust in God. On the last night of her life, when
two learned bishops came, with a forlorn hope of '
converting her, she astonished them by the clear
ness of her reason, the wisdom of her arguments,
and the serenity and meek confidence of her spir
it. In spite of their blind bigotry, they felt when
they went away that they had been conversing
with a saint, and that there would soon be an
other angel among the blessed.
Lord Guilford had obtained the Queen’s con
sent to a last interview with his wife that night;
but she declined to see him, for fear that the
dreadful parting would overcome the fortitude of
both. But, to cheer his poor heart, she reminded
him that the separation would be but for a very
little while, and then they would meet in a world
where disappointment, suffering, and death would
never, never come to interrupt their wedded hap
She wrote a farewell letter to her sister Cath
arine, in the Greek language, on the flyleaf of
her Testament. Then she prayed and composed

herself to sleep, that she might be calm and
strong in the morning. God’s angels ministeied
to her, so that she slept peacefully, and dreamed
of her home and her mother, instead of the axe
and the headsman.
Lord Guilford Dudley .was first led to exe
cution. From her grated window his wife saw
him go forth from the Tow;er to death, and
thought of that proud but fatal day on which
he had first entered it, in pomp and splen
dor, by her side, when she came to be proclaimed
Queen from that ancient prison-palace. Now
the poor youth looked pale and wasted, and his
eyes were swollen with weeping; but he ascend
ed the scaffold with a firm tread, and died with
heroic calmness and resignation.
The Lady Jane was executed within the court
of the Tower. From the scaffold she briefly ad
dressed the people. She admitted that she had
erred in accepting the crown, but solemnly de
clared that she had meant no evil, but sought to
do what was best for the people and the re
formed religion. She said that she hoped for
pardon and salvation only through the mercy of
the Lord Jesus Christ, and then begged the spec-

tators to pray for her. She knelt down and re
peated a fervent prayer ; then she rose and bared
her neck for the axe. Her eyes were bandaged,
and she was led to the block. She laid her
beautiful head down quietly, and said, in a sweet,
clear voice, “ Lord, into thy hands I commend
my spirit.” The headsman swung his axe in
the air; it gleamed terrible in the sunshine, then
fell, with a dull, heavy sound; and all was over.
Shortly after the execution of his daughter, the
Duke of Suffolk, who had been a second time
arrested for treason, was also beheaded. The
surviving members of his family were treated
with harshness and distrust by the Queen and
neglected by the servile and bigoted court.
Even Lord Herbert, the betrothed husband of
Lady Catharine, forsook them, and, false das
tard that he was, refused to fulfil his engage
ment. But she was happier rid of him than she
could possibly have been as- his wife; and she
doubtless scorned him, and thanked Heaven for
her own release.
When Elizabeth became Queen she was
jealous of Lady Catharine, who had inherited

her sister’s right, such as it was, to the throne,
and wished to keep her in obscurity and prevent
her marrying any powerful nobleman. So, when
the Lady Catharine and the brave and true-
hearted Earl of Hertford found that they dearly
loved one another, they did not dare to let her
majesty know it, but were privately married.
After a while, Elizabeth found out their secret,
and in her rage and spite had them both arrested
and committed to the Tower. But her anger
and cruelty could not part that devoted husband
and wife. They loved tenderly, firmly, and
faithfully, and thanked God for each other to the
After an imprisonment of seven years, during
which time she had three children born in the
gloomy Tower, Lady Catharine Hertford died
of a broken heart, making her lonely prison-
chamber a bright and blessed place by her an
gelic resignation. When she knew that her last
hour was come, she took off her wedding ring
and desired that it should be sent to her hus
band, who was not permitted to come to her
when she was dying. She then embraced her
three little boys with prayers and a few tears

which she could not keep back. Then she dosed
her eyes with her own hands and went softly to
sleep in the love of Jesus.
Lord Hertford was released after a longer im
prisonment of three years. He lived to be an
old man ; but the love of his unfortunate young
wife was ever a constant memory in his heart,
sweet, though mournful, like the scent of the
votive wreaths that withered over her grave.

Clie Cnmtr, rantiixtieit.

jiöjP In the latter part of
pter the reign of Queen
Elizabeth there appeared at
her court a young relative
of her own, named Arabella
“ The Lady Arabella,” as she was always
called, was the only child of Charles Stuart,
Earl of Lenox, and Elizabeth Cavendish, of
Hardwick. Her father was of the royal blood

of both England and Scotland ; for he was the
great-grandson of’Henry VII. and the uncle of
James VI. He died at the early age of twenty-
one, leaving his daughter with no protector in
the perilous great world to which she wa3
The Lady Arabella was very carefully educat
ed by her grandmother, the old Countess of Len
ox, who lived in London. As she grew up to
womanhood she became celebrated for her tal
ents and accomplishments and for the elegance
and grace of her manners. She became the or
nament of that splendid court, where she was
admired for her wit and learning, and loved and
wondered at for her kind, generous heart, her
frankness of speech and innocent ways, and for
her bright, sunshiny disposition.
This was the time when Elizabeth Tudor had
finally, with much reluctance, begun to realize
that, great Queen as she was,— powerful, re
nowned, magnificent, — she was getting to be
an old and a decidedly ugly woman; and accord
ingly she grew harsher and sourer, more testy
and tyrannical, every day. Of course she made
all the people about her unhappy and uncomfort-

able; though they were far enough from letting
her know they felt so, I’ll warrant. No; they
doubtless assured her that she was a saint for
goodness and a lamb for amiability; and when,
at seventy years of age, she went stiffly and
rheumatically through the court dances, in her
towering wig, her immense ruff, and hooped pet
ticoat, wily courtiers who wanted gifts and of
fices professed to be in raptures with her sylph
like figure, graceful movements, and sweet,
youthful smile; and designing court ladies,
though ever so young and blooming, coyly hung
back when asked to join the minuet, declaring
with a simper that they really could not make
figures of themselves after such dancing as that.
Yet, though they flattered her to her face in
this fulsome manner, there is little doubt but
that they privately relieved their feelings by ridi
culing her vanity and ugliness; and some of
them, I am afraid, in their secret hearts wished
her quietly laid away in her royal tomb in West
minster Abbey.
Such, dear childien, were courts and courtiers
in those old times — sometimes wrongly called
“ the good old times.”

The young Lady Arabella was like a singing-
oird, a wild flower, a bounding doe, a laughing
brook, a gleam of sunlight — any thing cheer
ful, sweet, glad, and natural—in that stiff, for
mal, cold, and hypocritical place.
But Queen Elizabeth was jealous of her, as
she had been of Lady Catharine Grey, for the
same absurd reason, — her royal blood, — and
treated her with cruel suspicion and harshness.
She was particularly set against her marrying;
and when a son of the Duke of Northumberland
addressed her, and she was pleased with him,
and they were having a pleasant correspondence
and looking forward to a happy life together,
Elizabeth, like the tyrannical Queen she was,
came between them and parted them forever.
She placed the Lady Arabella in confinement,
and kept her there until she thought her suffi
ciently punished for her presumption and disobe
As for the young noble, he seems to have been
but a faint-hearted lover; for he cjuietly yielded
to the Queen, and abandoned Arabella, proba
bly contenting himself with a wife less danger
ously allied to royalty, and less obnoxious to

Elizabeth, on the ground of talents and beauty,
as well as illustrious birth.
When her cousin, James VI., of Scotland,
ascended the throne of the United Kingdoms,
Lady Arabella Stuart hoped for a brighter and
easier life. But no; matters were only worse ;
and she was at last convinced that, unless she
could drain every drop of that fatal royal blood
from her veins, she could never cease to be an
object of distrust to the reigning sovereign,
whether Tudor or Stuart.
To add greatly to her misfortunes, her name
was made use of, without her leave or knowledge,
by a set of mad adventurers who conspired to
depose King James and seat her on the throne.
It was little wonder that the English people
were disgusted with their new Scottish King,
who, besides being coarse, ill-made, awkward,
and altogether ungentlemanly, was violent-tem-
pered, obstinate, conceited, tyrannical, shallow-
pated, and pedantic. In short, it seems proved
by the history of his time that a more contempti
ble monarch never sat on the throne of England
for any length of time; and that is saying a
great deal. The Lady Arabella, on the other

hand, was a good, wise, and gracious lady, and
would probably have made an excellent Queen.
Nevertheless it was a wild and hopeless scheme ;
for James had the legal right, possession, which,
it is said, is “nine points of the law;” and the
English people were not yet strong and free
enough to disregard these things when royal pre
rogatives were abused and honest loyalty sought
to be degraded into slavish submission.
This unfortunate plot was the one in which Sir
"Walter Raleigh was so unhappily implicated.
The Lady Arabella was present during the trial
of the conspirators, and denied having had any
knowledge of their designs. It was even proved
that, when a letter was sent her to warn her
that she was suspected of such a plot, she
laughed over it, in her frank, light-hearted way,
and sent it to the King.
But, though there was not the slightest evi
dence against her, and she was honorably ac
quitted, she was always afterwards obliged to
endure cold neglect and petty persecutions from
the King and royal family, and consequently
the court. She grew retired, studious, and reli
gious in her habits, shunning the gay world

much as possible. And the court grew not a
little more tiresome for this. There was no one
to take her place; and her lively talk and charm
ing manners were missed even by those who
were too stupid or ungenerous to acknowledge
her rare talents and goodness.
It was generally thought that the Lady Ara
bella would never marry, she had become so
thoughtful and reserved, and appeared so entire
ly devoted to learning and religion. It seems
that the King thought so; for he gave her a writ-,
ten permission to wed, provided she chose for
her husband one of his subjects. He made a
great parade about this, as though it were an act
of wonderful generosity.
But by this time the Lady Arabella understood
her royal kinsman; and when she found that in
her deepest heart she loved William Seymour,
son of the Earl of Beauchamp, and that all the
joy of her sorrowful, persecuted life was in the
dear love he gave her, she did not dare to bestow
her hand upon him before the world, or to inform
the King of her attachment, but was privately
married, as the Lady Catharine Grey had been.
By the way, this William Seymour was a

grandson of Lady Catharine and the Earl of
Hertford; so he came of a brave and faithful
This happy union was soon interrupted. The
secret of the marriage was discovered, and, by
some ill-natured courtier, conveyed to the King,
who proceeded to take vengeance on the offend
ers. Mr. Seymour was at once imprisoned in
the Tower. The Lady Arabella was committed
to the custody of Sir Thomas Parry, at Lam
beth, but soon after removed to the house of a
Mr. Conyers, at Highgate, where she was not so
closely watched but that she had opportunities
to write and send letters to her husband, who
found means to send her loving and cheering re
plies. So this true-hearted pair comforted each
other under their trials, and thus were happy
for a while, in spite of their tyrannical sovereign.
But some base little spy of a bird, who ought
to have been on better business, carried tidings
of this correspondence to the ear of the King,
who fretted, and stormed, and swore in broad
Scotch, and commanded that the Lady Arabella
should be removed to Durham and kept in close
confinement there.

A friend gave the poor woman timely warn
ing ; and she, in her grief and terror at the pros
pect of this further separation, wrote to her hus
band, begging him to arrange some plan of es
cape for them both.
The noble Seymour had made so many friends
in the Tower that he was not strictly guarded,
but allowed to walk about the courts and see his
friends privately. So he wrote to his wife, lay
ing a very ingenious plan for her to escape, giv
ing her particular directions, and promising to
join her at Lee, and cross the channel with her
to France, in a vessel which she would find wait* for them.
On the night before the day set for her jour
ney to Durham, the Lady Arabella, assisted by
a faithful serving woman named Markam, dis
guised herself completely in male attire. She
put on a doublet, a pair of long French hose, a
large wig of light hair covering her dark locks, a
black hat, a cloak, and a pair of high top-boots.
Then she buckled about her slender waist a
long, light sword, called a rapier,—trembling
at the very touch of it, — and so went out with
Markam quite unsuspected.

They walked a mile and a half to an inn,
where one of Seymour’s friends was awaiting
them with horses.
"When the Lady Arabella mounted she was
so faint with terror and fatigue that the hostler
who held the stirrup for her said he feared “ that
young gentleman would hardly hold out to
But the brisk exercise in the cool night air re
vived her; and after a while she grew strong,
courageous, and cheerful, and even laughed with
Markam about her manly way of riding, which
of course was strange and awkward to her.
About six o’clock in the morning they reached
Blackwall, where they found two men, a gentle
woman, and a waiting-maid, with two boats —
one to receive them, and the other filled with the
trunks and valuables of Mr. Seymour and his
They hastened from Blackwall to Wool
wich, from Woolwich to Gravesend, and from
Gravesend to Lee, where they went at once
on board the French bark which was lying
at anchor. Here the Lady Arabella wished
to remain until her husband should come;

but her followers and the captain of the vessel
thought it not prudent, and, against her tear
ful entreaties, hoisted sail and put out to sea,
only promising her to hover as near as was safe
to the English coast, that Seymour might join
In the mean time Mr. Seymour had safely ef
fected his escape from the Tower by disguising
himself as a countryman, in a coarse cloth suit,
with a black wig and a false beard, and boldly
walked out of the great west gate beside a cart
that had brought him a load of fagots. The
woodman who took his place for a little while
was well paid for his pains, I can assure you.
Mr. Seymour then passed quietly along the
Tower wharf, by the warders of the south gate, ; ;
to where one of his faithful friends was waiting
for him with a boat. They rowed to Lee, anjd, .
found to their grief that the French bark had
weighed anchor and was gone. But there was
a ship in the distance that they hoped was it.
Though a storm was coming on, and the waves
were rising very high, Mr. Seymour hired a fish
erman to take him out to this vessel. Alas! it
was not the right one. Then, in his sorrowful

perplexity, almost in despair, he hailed a New*
castle coal-craft, and for a large sum induced the
master to alter its course and land him in Flan
ders— probably hoping that his wife would ü'~,
able to join him there.
Now, when the news of the escape of the La
dy Arabella and William Seymour came to the
King he stormed worse than ever, swore several
hard oaths in broad Scotch, raved up and down
his cabinet, kicked the pet spaniel of his hand
some favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, and
behaved in a most unkingly manner generally;
all because a faithful and loving husband and
wife had made a brave effort to live together, as
they had promised before God to do. He or
dered that a vessel of war should at once be
sent after the fugitives. This ship soon came
up with the French bark, which was lingering
for Mr. Seymour, and fired into her thirteen shot
before she would surrender.
The Lady Arabella was taken and lodged in
the Tower, bravely protesting, it is said, that she
was more glad that her husband had escaped
from it than she was sorry to enter it herself, as
his happiness was of far more consequence than

her own. But, poor man ! little happiness came
to his sad heart after that dreadful disappointment.
He lived for several years in Flanders, a lonely,
sorrowful exile — ever looking longingly towards
his country, that he dared not revisit — ever think"
ing of his noble wife as sitting in her gloomy
prison chamber, sadly musing over the brief, hap
py days of their love, or as weeping wildly and
stretching out her arms towards him — as some
times despairing utterly, and sometimes vainly
hoping for deliverance.
The Lady Arabella was brought before the
King’s Privy Council and very sternly examined.
She replied to all their questioning with frank
ness and admirable judgment, and bore herself
far more royally than the miserable, jealous-
minded monarch that opposed her. Nothing
treasonable could be proved against her; and
yet she was sent back to the Tower. O, what
a foreboding gloom fell on her once glad spirit,
what a deathlike chill shot through her brave,
warm heart, as she passed once again under the
cold shadows of those dark prison portals !
About a year from this time the Lady Ara
bella sent word to her cousin, the King, that she

had some very important disclosures to ma*-®,
So the King, rubbing his hands in savage glee at
having brought the proud woman to terms,
called a Privy Council, in great haste, to hear
what she had to disclose.
The prisoner appeared before them and made
some very startling disclosures indeed — so star
tling that the base King turned pale, and all those
hardened old lords looked shocked, almost
grieved. She revealed that sorrow, persecution,
and imprisonment had driven her mad! Yes;
the once gay and gifted Lady Arabella Stuart
was a maniac!
Again her cousin, the King, sent her back to
the Tower, perhaps thinking it the best place
to hide the dreadful work of his injustice and
But even those massive prison walls could
not shut the disgraceful and horrible truth from
the world. The story of the Lady Arabella’s
wrongs and sufferings, despair and madness,
got abroad, and few were so careless or hard
hearted as not to feel for her. Women talked
of her sadly at their firesides, while their chil
dren wept around ; rough men spoke her name

in pitying tones, saying, “ Alack! a woful
ending to the faithful loves of so fair a dame
and so gracious a gentleman! ” •— while brave
youths, listening, played with the hilts of
their swords and cursed the King in their secret
At last the fearful tidings reached William
Seymour, and made all the sorrow that had
gone before seem as nothing. After that he no
longer thought of his Arabella as sitting in quiet
grief, thinking of him and remembering the
dear old happy days, but as shrieking out inco
herent words and singing wild ballads ; as clad
in a coarse garb; as bound and struggling in
fierce frenzy; or as moping in speechless mel
ancholy, slowly sinking into the deep stupor of
So he suffered while three miserable years
dragged on ; and then, it is said, a sweet vision
was sent to comfort him. He dreamed he saw
his beloved wife, smiling with love and hap
piness, clothed in beautiful garments, pure
white, like her wedding dress — in her “right
mind,” sitting at the feet of Him who came to

comfort the sorrowful and “open the prison
doors to them that are bound.”
When William Seymour awoke from this
dream he was at peace, and he said, “ Now I
know it is well with her.” And it was well
The Lady Arabella was dead.

SBüstminsta Sllilmj.

This noble cathe
dral, one of the most
famous religious edifices in the
world, is said to have beer
founded in the second century,
upon the site of a Roman temple dedicated to Apol
lo. But there is no very authentic record of it be
fore the time of Edward the Confessor. Ke rebuil*
it in what was then considered a splendid stylt
of architecture, and expended immense sura;

upon it. He appointed a great many monks to
live there, and gave them a great deal of money,
that they might be easy and comfortable; and
in return they flattered and fawned upon him,
put him in the conceit that he could work mira
cles by touching people for the “ King’s evil,”
and made a saint of him after he was dead.
From his time down to a recent reign the
abbey has been growing in beauty and im
portance, though it has suffered sadly in various
revolutions, and is far less splendid in some
respects than it was before the old Catholic
worship was done away. It looks somewhat
too dark and dreary without the rich altars, the
golden chalices and candlesticks, the burning ta
pers and incense, the pictures and images of
saints, angels, the Blessed Virgin and the Child
Jesus, which once made it so brilliant and beauti
ful a show. But the English people, although they
love beauty and splendor, thank God for this
change. It is better to give freedom and the
Bible to the poor than to decorate altars; and
darkened churches are better than darkened
Westminster Abbey is not so magnificent as

York Minster, nor so imposing as St. Paul’s Ca
thedral; but it is more interesting than either,
because of its age, its history, and the many
tombs of distinguished people which it contains.
In the old churchyard without are a multitude
of graves covered with flat stone slabs. Nearly
all the inscriptions are so worn away that one
tries in vain to decipher them. I thought, as I
walked over these stones, that perhaps many of
those who sleep in the unknown graves below
may have been in their lives noble and good,
though not deemed worthy of a burial among
heroes, princes, and poets within the minster.
And then I thought of a surer record for such,
and rejoiced in the promise that the names of
the righteous shall be carved on the imperishable
tablets of God’s remembrance.
Westminster Abbey is a vast edifice, built,
like all ancient cathedrals, in the form of a cross,
with so many aisles and chapels that it seems
like a congregation of small churches with one
grand roof over all.
Dear children, I truly wish that I could give
you such a description of Westminster Abbey
as would make it stand and shine out before

you in all its immensity and solemn beauty,
But, as this cannot be, I must content myself with
speaking of some of the most interesting objects
which it contains, and leave the grand building
itself to your imaginations till that happy houi
when you may behold it with your own wonder
ing, delighted eyes.
In the south transept is what is called “ The-
Poet’s Corner,” because here are the tombs o.
taolets of many of the most famous poets of
England. To this spot all who love poetry first
turn their steps. The oldest tomb here is that
of Chaucer, who, you will remember, lived in
the time of Edward III. and Queen Philippa.
The next is that of Edmund Spenser, who lived
in the reign of Elizabeth, and was one of the
most wonderful poets that ever was known. His
soul was as full of beauty and melody as an
English wood in summer is of flowers and bird
songs. He had a pure spirit, a gentle heart; and
the world has been brighter and happier for his
having lived and written. But alas! his own
life was one of trial and suffering, though he was
much courted and flattered in the first days of
his fame. His friend Ben Jonson states that

he actually died of want in London, and that,
>ust at the last, he refused twenty pieces of gold
sent him by the Earl of Essex, saying “ he was
sorry he had no time to spend them.”
But when he was dead his great friends rallied
about him and made a grand funeral for him in
the abbey. When his body, once admired for
its symmetry and beauty, but now worn with care
and wasted with famine, was let down into the
grave, his brother poets threw in upon it elegies
and epitaphs. Alas! so it too often is in this
world. People are more ready to go to great
funerals than to seek out the suffering, and find
it cheaper to write elegies for the dead than to
furnish bread for the starving.
Yet there was one among that group of poets
who, you may rely on it, would have shared his
last crust with his friend, had he known of his
need. This was a play-actor and writer whom
he called “ gentle Willy,” but whom the world
will know forever as William Shakspeare.
The next poet buried here was Francis Beau
mont. He had a dear friend whose name was
Fletcher. The two always lived and worked
together, and wrote so much alike that nobody

could tell their writings apart. They loved each
other so well in life that it was almost cruel to
separate them in death ; but Fletcher was no!
buried in the abbey.
Next in interest are the tombs of Dr. Johnson,
Garrick, the great actor, and Sheridan, the bril
liant wit.
In this corner is the tomb of one Thomas
Parr, who actually lived in the reigns of ten dif
ferent sovereigns, and died at the prodigious age
of a hundred and fifty-two years! Poor old man !
He must have feared that God had forgotten
The most beautiful of all the chapels is that
of Henry VII. One can hardly imagine that
this sould ever have been more magnificent than
now; yet it has doubtless been much injured
and defaced since the time of its royal founder.
In tne nave of this chapel the Knights of the
Path have always been installed. In old times
the candidates for this honor were obliged
to take a cold bath and afterwards watch all
night; but in modern times both the bath and
the vigil have been omitted by special order, as a
disagreeable and dangerous duty — that is, when

the young knight happened to be a Prince of the
The principal tombs in this chapel are those
of Henry VII., his Queen, and his mother, Mar
garet, Countess of Richmond; Queen Mary;
Mary, Queen of Scots; Queen Elizabeth ; King
James I., his Queen and children, and the Lady
Arabella Stuart; Queen Anne, and her husband,
Prince George of Denmark; William III. and
his Queen; the famous Duke of Buckingham ;
the poet Addison; and that noble Lord Orsory
of whom his father, the Duke of Ormond, said,
in the midst of his grief, “I would not ex
change my dead son for any living son in Chris
In this chapel there is a white marble sarcoph
agus, which contains some bones found in an
oaken chest in the Tower during the reign of
Charles II., and supposed to be the remains of
the young King Edward V., and his brother,
Richard of York, who were murdered by order
of their uncle, Richard III.
As I stood beside this I shuddered, and the
tears started to my eyes as I thought of those
two poor innocent boys, smothered to death by

brumal wretches, as they lay locked in each other’s
arms, dreaming pleasant dreams, perhaps, of
happy days gone by forever, or of the heart
broken mother they were nevermore to behold.
The stcry of a murder like this is a blood-stain
on the page of history that nothing can erase;
and the horror of men at such a murderer grows
deeper and deeper age after age. Since Richard
of Gloucester fell on Bosworth Field the world
has mad; its great journey around the sun
more than three hundred and fifty times; yet
-it has nev.;r rolled out of the shadow of his
In the chapel of St. Paul, among the grand ■
monuments of lords and ladies, stands a colos
sal statue of James Watt, the great engineer,
who, among other noble works, improved the
steam-engine and brought it to its present per
fect state. I was glad to see this statue in West
minster Abbey; for, after the best of the poets,
none of the great people here buried have done
so much good for the world as James Watt.
In the chapel of the Kings there is a beauti
ful figure of Eleanor, Queen of Edward I., which
lies on her tomb Old as it is, there is nothing

so graceful and lovely in all the abbey. The
tombs of Edward III. and the noble Queen
Philippa are also in this chapel.
Here are kept the old coronation-chairs of the
Kings and Queens of England, and the famous
stone of Scone, on which the early Scottish
Kings were crowned. The Scots held it in the
highest veneration, and had many wonderful
traditions concerning it—the most absurd of
which were, that it was the pillow on which Ja
cob rested his head on the night when he had
the beautiful dream of a ladder full of angels;
and that it was once owned by the warlike
Scythians ; and that, when a native Prince seated
himself on it to be crowned, it gave out sounds
like thunder and cried “ God save the King ”
in good Scythian.
The poor Scots were greatly grieved when
Edward I. took this rare stone from them. They
would rather he had taken its weight in silver,
provided so much of that precious metal could
have been raised in all Scotland.
The great drawback to one’s pleasure in visit
ing Westminster Abbey is the fact that you
cannot go about by yourself and see things at

your leisure, but must be conducted by a stupid-
looking personage called a verger, who, after
making you pay a shilling, hurries you through
the chapels, giving you a lesson about the
tombs, which he has by heart, and repeats in a
pompous, sing-song tone, and in very bad
This is very trying indeed; but we must bear
it, for it seems to be one of the fixed institutions
— some say impositions — of the country.
In the cloudy month of April, in the year
1509, in his royal chamber in his new palace of
Richmond, the mighty monarch, Kang Hen
ry VII., lay dying with the gout. He was in
great distress both in body and mind; for, when
ever there was a little lull in that terrible gout-
torture, his conscience set in to lash and sting
him till his very soul writhed in agony. He
had been a guileful, perfidious, cruel man ■— not
bold in wickedness like his predecessor, Rich
ard III., but hiding his evil deeds from the world;

and now his secret crimes looked out at him
from the dark corners of his memory, like
threatening dem on-faces. His dear friends the
priests tried to comfort him. They told him
that he had been a very good King and a most
exemplary son of the church. Still they ad
mitted that he had committed a few trifling
errors, and for his human weaknesses and little
sins perhaps it would be as well for him to give
something more to the church, and make some
provision for masses to be said for his royal soul
after it should have parted from his royal body.
King Henry, who knew his own sins best,
thought so too, and left in his will directions for
a costly tomb to be erected in his chapel before
the high altar. He made many rich bequests
to this altar, and left a large sum of money to
pay for wax tapers which should be kept perpet
ually burning, and masses to be perpetually said
for the repose of his soul. Then he besought
his son Henry to right some of the wrongs he
had done and restore some of the property he
had unjustly confiscated. Think of his ask
ing Henry VIII. to do that! And then he
bowed his crowned head and yielded to a mon-

arch greater than he, a tyrant yet more inex
orable— grim King Death.
In the smiling month of June, in the same
year, there sat, propped up in a chair of state,
before an open window that looked out upon a
pleasant lawn, a noble lady— Margaret, Countess
of Richmond, mother of King Henry VII. She,
too, was dying; but tranquil and almost pain
less was her passing away ; for her heart was at
peace with the world, and her soul already re
posed in God.
All day long, great people — princes and prin
cesses, lords and ladies — had been coming to pay
their respects for the last time before she should
depart from the world and the court forever ; and
though she each time lifted her head and extend
ed her hand in her old proud and stately way,
for every guest she had wise and serious, yet
kind and gentle, words of admonition and fare
Many a gay courtier, in her presence, felt
his heart strangely touched and drawn towards
God ; and many a thoughtless court dame went
out from that death-chamber with her eyes cast

down and penitent tears glistening on the long
The young King, Henry VIII.,-came striding
in, jingling his spurs and clanging his sword, in
his rough, bluff way; and with him came his
good Queen, Katharine of Arragon. When the
noble Countess solemnly enjoined upon her
grandson to take counsel of God, and rule justly
and mercifully, he promised ; but in his base
heart he knew that he lied.
There was no lack of priests about the dying
Countess. She had always been considered a
remarkably devout woman, and it was thought
that she would leave the greater part of her- im
mense property to the Church. So the holy men
stood by her to the last. They gave her the sac
rament; they chanted and burned incense, and
said a multitude of prayers in her chamber.
But when Death, who came to the good Coun
tess Margaret as an angel of blessed release,
swung open the invisible gates and led her into
her heavenly home, the pious fathers suffered a lit
tle disappointment; for she, too, had made a will.
She had left some bequests to the Church;

she had endowed two colleges ; but she had also
left a large sum for the perpetual benefit of the
poor of Westminster.
In the reign of Henry VIII. began the Refor
mation in England. After a while the King fa
vored it; not from conscientious motives, but
because he had quarrelled with the Pope, and
because, being avaricious and rapacious, he
was glad of an opportunity of getting pos
session of the treasures of the abbeys and
churches. One of the first things he did was
to rob his dead father of his silver candlesticks,
his incense, and his masses. He even destroyed
the altar itself, after stripping it of every thing
valuable. So the lights were put out, the chant
ing was hushed, the ^sweet incense ceased to as
cend before the tomb of Henry VII. So hi3
royal will was set at nought.
But the nobler will of his truly pious mother
has remained in force and continued its blessed
work through generation after generation down
to this very day. Around her tomb the bless
ings of the poor arise in a pure, perpetual

incense; there the memory of her good deeds
sheds inextinguishable light, and, more than gol
den chalice or silver candlestick, sacred relic or
royal emblem, commends her name to the rev
erence and loyal love of the world.

Mem glitte if ^eatmittster.

The most beautiful
modern building in
England, if not in the world,
is the New Palace of West
minster, which stands on the Thames, near to
the Abbey. It is an immense edifice, built of
fine stone, which is richly and elaborately carved
in all sorts of figures, flowers, and devices. It
has many graceful towers and pinnacles, and
almost countless windows- arches, and piciies

and, vast as it is, it seems like a structure of
fairy land, so delicately and exquisitely is it
finished, where it is finished at all; for some
portions of this palace are yet far from com
You must know this is not a royal resi
dence, but is built for the great English" Parlia
ment, and contains the houses of Lords and
Attached to the New Palace is old Westmin
ster Hall — a majestic building, erected by Wil
liam Rufus. That King taxed his subjects in
a most grievous manner for money to expend
on this hall, and compelled poor artisans to
work for small wages; so that the sighs and
curses of the people may be said to have
echoed every stroke of the chisel and blow of
the hammer till the imposing edifice stood com
Within this hall all coronation and state ban
quets were formerly given. Here Parliaments
have sat and many state trials have been held.
King Charles II. was tried and condemned here
on the 20th of January, 1649. Here Oliver
Cromwell was inaugurated Lord Protector, with

great pomp and ceremony, on the 16th of Sep
tember, 1653.
- On the 30th of January, 1661, a great crowd
of people were gathered in the court-yard before
Westminster Hall, gazing and pointing upward
to a horrible object upon the top. It was the
head of Oliver Cromwell spiked upon an oaken
pole, and fixed there by command of the new
King, Charles II. And here I think I must tell
you something more of that head of Cromwell.
Charles I., you will remember, was the son of
that King James of whom we have seen so
much meanness and cruelty. Charles was more
of a gentleman than his father; handsomer and
more gracious in his manners, but in his way
scarcely less tyrannical. For many years he
pursued a reckless and foolish course, unjustly
extorting money from his subjects ; intriguing
with foreign courts and the army; now defy
ing and dismissing Parliament; now flattering
and weakly yielding to it; always promising
and never fulfilling; belying . the real kingly
character; and being only true to his double-
dealing Stuart nature and to his father’s bad

Chief among this King’s enemies, for talent,
energy, boldness, and good strong sense, was
Oliver Cromwell. He was a brave and skilful
general, a masterly politician, an eloquent cra-
tor — in short, an admirable leader for the people ;
and he proved a wiser and a more active ruler
than England had known for many a long year.
After King Charles was beheaded, (he died very
bravely, to his honor,) Oliver broke up a Parlia
ment which didn’t suit him, and got one after
his own heart, and had every thing his own way.
He made the nation respected abroad; he made
himself feared and honored even by kings and
nobles who pretended to despise him for his low
ly birth. But in one thing he was unwise : he
was too strict and stern in the forms of religion.
He and his Puritan followers sung too many
psalms and said too many long prayers in pub
lic, and set their solemn faces too hard against
the elegant arts and innocent amusements of
society. The people grew tired, and secretly
longed for a few royal shows, processions, coro
nations, tournaments, or birthday festivals. But
they stood in such mortal fear of “old Noll,”
as they called Oliver, that they kept pretty quiet

till he died and his son Bichard undertook to
fill his place. Then they said, “Come, we have
had enough of this ; let us have a real King and
ä gay court again at any cost, and have done
with the brewer’s family, and this long, dull
So they called home Charles II., who had
long been hoping for an invitation, and was not
backward in accepting it. They declared him
King, and flattered and feasted him, and made
as much joyful ado over him as though he had
been the “ prodigal son ” himself; and so he
was, as far as the prodigality went.
Charles II., who was called “a generous
Prince ” and “ the merry monarch,” began his reign
by certain acts any thing but generous or merry.
He put to death nearly all the Puritan leaders
he could lay his hands on; and then he had the
dead bodies of Cromwell and his friends Ireton
and Bradshaw taken from their graves in West
minster Abbey, dragged in a cart to Tyburn, and
there hung on the gallows from sunrise to sun
set. They were then cut down and beheaded.
The trunks were thrown into a pit; the heads
spiked and fixed on the top of Westminster Hall

Cromwell had been embalmed; and his head
remained entire, though exposed to the weather
twenty-five years.
One stormy night, in the latter part of the
reign of James II., it is said, the old staff was
broken off by a strong wind, and the head, rolling
down the eaves, fell into the court below, right at
the feet of a lonely sentinel. He, seeing what it
was, took it up, placed it under his cloak, and
went on making his dreary round. When he
went home he hid it upon a spacious chimney,
thinking, doubtless, that the time would come
when it would bring a large price as a great cu
riosity. There was a mighty hue and cry set up
about the missing head, and the sentinel never
dared to divulge the secret of its being in his
possession. But after his death his family sold
it to a Mr. Russell, a relative of Cromwell. In
his family it remained, descending from father to
son, until one Mr. Samuel Russell, being very
poor, sold it to the proprietor of a museum.
About fifty years ago Mr. Henry Wilkinson
bought it at a large price, and at the house of
his son, William Arthur Wilkinson, Esq., a dis
tinguished member of Parliament, I saw it a

short time before I left England. It is kept in
an old oaken box, wrapped in black silk, and
locked in a cabinet. It is regarded with much
reverence by its present possessors, who honor
the character of Cromwell, and it doubtless is a
very valuable relic; but it is a mournful and
horrible spectacle. So well was this head em
balmed, that, notwithstanding the hard usage it
has met with, much of the hair and beard, and
some portions of the skin and flesh, yet remain
upon it — the latter blackened and shrivelled like
those of an Egyptian mummy. The iron spike
of the broken oak staff is yet fast in it; and on
the lower part of the skull is a deep cut, made
by the headsman, who evidently struck too high
the first time. And this is the story of Oliver
Cromwell’s head, which, when fast on his sturdy
shoulders and when his live eyes gleamed out
of it, ruled a great nation and awed the whole
world, but, when dead, a revengeful king could
dishonor, and any crow could peck at.
I was shown over the new Palace of Westmin
ster by Mr. Cobden, a member of the House of
Commons, who explained every thing to me in
the pleasantest possible manner. With him I

passed through many beautiful halls and corri
dors, and visited the houses of Lords and Com
mons. In the latter I heard a short speech from
Mr. D’Israeli, a famous statesman, but a person
not very remarkable in his appearance, except for
a gay waistcoat, a pair of keen, restless, dark
eyes, and a head of very black hair, hanging in
stiff little curls, which look more like corkscrews
than any thing else.
In the House of Lords we heard a few words
from the great Lord Brougham. Those of
you who have seen pictures of him in “ Punch”
know just how he looks ; for they are frightfully
The House of Lords is the most magnificent
and brilliant hall I ever saw. It is really daz
zling with gilding and beautiful ornaments, and
richer than you can imagine in carving, pictures,
and velvet hangings. The seats of the peers
and the steps of the throne are covered with
crimson; the throne itself is a mass of rich
carving, gold, and crimson velvet; and all about
are the royal arms, national emblems and de
vices, curiously wrought or painted in gorgeous

I saw this chamber to better advantage at an-
ither time — and this was when Queen Victoria
prorogued (that is, dismissed) Parliament, on
the 1st of July, 1852.
1 took the seat appointed to me in the gallery
of the House of Lords at an early hour, and
watched the peers and peeresses, officers of the
church and state, foreign ministers and spectators
enter and take their places.
1 had never beheld any thing half so splendid
in the way of costly dress and jewelry as then
met my eye on every side. The peers all wore
robes of crimson velvet, trimmed with ermine,
with jewelled orders about their necks and dia
mond stars sparkling on their breasts. The for
eign ministers wore the court dresses of theii
various countries, some of them exceedingly rich
and beautiful. The judges wore long, black
robes, and those enormous white wigs which the
English think so venerable and imposing, but
which only strike us as queer and absurd. Then

there were the bishops, who, though doubtless
very pious men, did not seem to disapprove of
all this worldly pomp and splendor, but looked
contented and merry, and were very handsomely
attired indeed.
The p3eresses and other great ladies present
were dressed in the richest velvets, satins, bro
cades, and laces, with ornaments of plumes,
flowers, and all varieties of costly jewels ; some
wearing on their heads, in their ears, about
their necks and arms, and down their dresses,
large fortunes in diamonds — shining, and flash
ing, and blinking all over them like a fairy illu
mination. Many of those noble lords and la
dies were handsome, stately, and graceful enough
to do without titles, fine dress, orders, and
diamonds; but some, it seemed to me, were
very much indebted indeed to titles, fine dress,
orders, and diamonds. Near me sat a little In
dian Princess, dressed in her native costume, and
covered from head to foot with gems and gold.
It was said that the court ladies were greatly
interested in this child, partly because she was
pretty and a little of a savage, and partly because
there was something rather romantic in her his«

tory. Her mother hid been converted to Chris
tianity, and, when she was dying, made her hus
band promise to take her little girl to England
and place her under the charge of Queen Vic
toria, that she might be educated as a Christian.
The Prince did as he had promised; though he
knew he would be hated and denounced for it in
India. He took his little daughter to England.
Queen Victoria accepted the charge, and stood
sponsor for her when she was baptized into the
English church.
About two o’clock there was a brave firing of
great guns, to announce her majesty’s arrival at
the Victoria Tower; and, a few minutes after, all
in the house rose in respectful silence to receive
the Queen. She entered with a slow, dignified
step, conducted by her husband, Prince Albert,
and followed by officers of state and the army.
The Queen did not wear her crown — it was
borne before her on a velvet cushion by the Eau
of Derby; but she wore a splendid tiara of dia
monds. Her dress was of white satin, striped
with gold, and over it an open robe of crimson
velvet, trimmed with ermine and embroidered
with gold. The train of this robe, many yards

in length, was borne by ladies, gentlemen, and
’*■* ' Queen Victoria is a pretty pleasant-looking
woman, fair and plump, with mild, blue eyes,
soft, brown hair, and a very sweet smile; but
she certainly is not Queen-like in the way that
Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor were. She
is not handsome, nor haughty, nor even tall.
But, short as she is, she looks quite stately
enough when seated on the throne, and is not a
bit too simple and mild in her manner and ex
pression for a Queen who has really no power
of herself; and, though she is not beautiful or
proud, it’s a comfort to know that she will not
blow up her husband with gunpowder, as Mary
Stuart did hers; and will not box her ministers’
ears, or order her enemies’ heads to be cut off,
like stormy Queen Bess.
Never, it seemed to me, was there a little wo
man so radiant with great, lustrous, throbbing
diamonds. They seemed to have been starred
upon her, till she shone like brightness itself.
When her breast heaved they glistened like
foam-beads on the crest of a wave • and when
she bowed her head or moved her arms, she

shook off little sparkles of light, as a rose-tree
shakes off dew-drops when it stirs in the jmorn-
ing wind. ^
On the right and left of the throne are two
chairs of state — one for the heir apparent, and
the other for the Prince consort The young
Prince of Wales was not present that day ; but
Prinee Albert sat in his place, at the left of his
wife. He is a tall, handsome, military-look
ing man, and is much liked and respected by the
English people. Between him and the Queen
stood the great Duke of Wellington,, bearing
the sword of state, which was almost too heavy
for him in his feeble state of health. He was
very old; his head was tremulous with palsy,
his hair was snowy white, and his tall figure
was wasted and bent. I could not realize, when
I looked at him, that he was indeed that great
general, the conqueror of Napoleon Bonaparte.
This was the last prorogation he was to witness :
he died early in the following autumn.
The members of the House of Commons were
summoned, and came hurrying into a little place
railed off for them under the gallery, opposite the
throne. Some of these are Lords and Hohora-

bles, and all of them, it is supposed, are gentle
men ; yet they crowded and pushed one another
in a most unceremonious way, and seemed as
eager to see the show as a set of schoolboys. I
noticed that Mr. D’Israeli soon made his way
into the front rank, though he came in last.
That is what genius does for a man.
There was a long, dull speech read to the
Queen, which she heard patiently, being used to
juch things ; then she gave her approval to some
bills; and then the Lord Chancellor, kneeling at
her feet, put into her hand her own speech,
which she read in a sweet, clear tone of voice,
with perfect emphasis and distinctness.
Then the Lord Chancellor rose and announced
that Parliament was prorogued till the 20th of
August; then the Queen rose and Prince Albert
rose; then the peers and peeresses rose; then
the foreign ministers, distinguished and undistin
guished strangers, rose. Prince Albert gave his
hand to the Queen; the ladies, gentlemen, and
pages took up the train ; Lord Derby stepped for
ward with the crown ; the poor old Duke tottered
along with the sword of state; the whole grand
procession passed out; and the brilliant assembly

broke up and followed as quietly as possible. So
ended this beautiful royal pageant for me; but
some of my friends who were outside, and saw
the Queen and Prince Albert get into their
splendid state carriage and drive away, professed
to pity me for having lost the best part of the
show. It was well they thought so. According
to their account, it was a wonder the sun was
not dazzled quite out of sight by that gorgeous,
golden equipage. But the sun was out on a hol
iday,— a rare England,—and deter
mined not to be outshone even by royalty.
Queen Victoria is a gentle and conscientious
sovereign, an affectionate daughter, a loving wife,
a tender mother, and a true Christian. Such
a woman has not sat on the throne of Great
Britain for many a year, if ever before ; so let us
say with her subjects, and from our hearts, “ God
save the Queen! ” not because she is the Queen,
but because she is good.

Fannie JSailanto.
BtfUfc Sllustratfons.

Sntered according to Act of Congnsa, In the year 1860, Vy
to the Clerk’s OSce of the District Court of the District of MaMechuaetta

ALLO WAY. — Robert Borns 1
GLASGOW. — Sir William Wallace 19
STIRLING CAS'ILE. —TnE Little Douglas . . 69
BANNOCKBURN. —Robert Bruce 79
LINLITHGOW. — Mary Queen of Scots .... 99
EDINBURGH. — Little Margery and her Kitten . 119
EDINBURGH.—The Marquis of Montrose . . .143
EDINBURGH. — The Two Margarets .... 163
EDINBURGH. — The ’Prentice’s Pillar . . , .186
THE CITY CROSS. — The “Pretenders” . . 219
ter Scott ... u .... . 246

My deab Laddie: —
Allow a happy guest in your beautiful home to dedicate
to you this volume.
I am aware that few, if any, of these historical tales can
be new to you; yet I am vain enough to hope that you will
read my version with a new interest. Indeed, some of the
stories of Scotland’s heroes and martyrs cannot be react too
often. It is well to keep in fresh remembrance how much
these brave and devout spirits dared and endured for their
liberties, their country, and their God.
Such noble examples will serve only to stimulate and
strengthen the highest and manliest attributes oft your na
ture,—to exalt your boyish enthusiasm for the beautiful,
the heroic, and the true into an abiding principle, a habit
of life, a Christian faith.
Praying that you may carry into manhood the happy
ingenuous spirit, the gracious endearing qualities of the boy,
— that the fondest hopes of love may be fulfilled in your
fortunate and honorable future, —
I remain ever your friend,
Jamaica Plain, Dec. 3d 1860.


T WAS on the evening of Sep
tember 23d, 1852, that I left
dear old Ireland, with some
kind friends, for a short tonr
in “ Bonnie Scotland.” We took a steamer at
Belfast for Ardrossan, where we landed early
the next morning. From this port we went by
railway to the town of Ayr, where we took a
carriage and drove over to the parish of Alla-

way, the birthplace of the poet Bums. Almost
all travellers who visit Scotland come here,—
some merely to have it to say .hat they have
seen the place, with other sights, and some be
cause of a real love for poets and poetry.
Robert Burns was a peasant, and the son of a
peasant. His father’s cottage, which we visited
first, was in his time what is called in Scot*
land “ a clay bigging,” containing only two apart
ments, a kitchen and a small sitting-room. We
were sorry to find that an addition had been
built on to it, and that it was occupied as an
alehouse. There is a noble poem by Burns, en
titled “ The Cotter’s Saturday Night,” in which
this cottage is described, as are also the pious
father and mother of the poet.
Near by stands “ old Alloway Kirk,” a ruined
stone church, also rendered famous by a poem,
though of a very different character, entitled
“ Tam o’ Shanter.”
As this witty poem, like most of the writings
of Robert Burns, is m tu? Scottish dialect, which
my young readers would hardly understand, I
will relate in plain prose the story, which made
a great laugh through all the county of Ayr
shire, some seventy-five years ago.

Tam o’ Shanter, which means Tom of Slian-
ter, was a jolly peasant, who lived on a farm,
in the poet’s neighborhood. Tam was unfor
tunately given to drinking too much, especially
when he got away from home, among his cronies.
His goodwife, Kate, did her best to admonish and
reprove him, and to warn him of the danger of
such evil ways. She told him plainly that he was
an idle, tippling, good-for-nothing fellow, who was
bound to destruction as fast as he could post, in
spite of the blessings of an industrious, affection
ate wife, and a blooming family of little ones.
She bade him mark her words, — that, sooner or
later, he would be found drowned in the Doon;
or that the witches and warlocks that haunted
old Alio way Kirk would catch him and run off
with him, body and soul, and she would be left a
poor lone widow, and her sweet bairns be forever
deprived of a father’s care and example.
Well, one night, Tam came home some time
after twelve, with a fearful story of strange ad
ventures, which for once stopped his Kate’s
scolding tongue with wonder and horror. It
had been a market-day at Ayr, and Tam was
easily persuaded to stay late at the alehouse, by

an old crony of his, one “ Souter Johnny,” or
Shoemaker Johnny. The landlord and landlady
sat down with them, and they drank the foaming
ale, sung songs, and told stories, hour after hour,
while the storm beat and the wind whistled with
out. At last, Tam very reluctantly mounted his
good gray mare, “ Meg,” and started for home ;
— facing wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, but,
as he afterwards declared, thinking them of small
account, compared with the tempest which Kate
would raise about his ears when he should reach
his farm-house at Shanter.
As he drew near Kirk Alloway, which had long
enjoyed the reputation of being haunted by very
naughty spirits, what was his astonishment to see
bright lights shining through its ruined windows,
its cracks, and crannies, and to hear from it loud
sounds of laughter, fiddling, and dancing!
Tam was no coward by nature, and the strong
ale he had drunk made him wonderfully brave;
so he did not hesitate to satisfy his curiosity by
riding up to one of the windows, where he peeped
in upon a startling scene. It was, he declared,
a ball of lady and gentleman witches, with “ Old
Nick,” in the shape of a horned beast, for fiddler!

The dancers were a wicked-looking set of crea
tures,— grim, ugly, and terrible, — who danced
with wild leaps and furious yells, and made
themselves as hideous and disgusting as possible.
There was one exception, however ; a young
witch, called Nannie, tolerably good-looking, and
who was so supple and frolicsome, bounded and
whirled about so lightly, and took such pro
digious jumps, that Tam was delighted, and, for
getting where he was, and that he must not let
that select company know that an uninvited guest
was watching their unholy sport, lie clapped Lis
hands, and shouted, “ Well done ! ”
As the poem says,—
“In an instant, all was dark!”
and out of the kirk poured the whole witch-
company, shrieking and howling, and taking after
Tam, who spurred and whipped his faithful Meg
to her utmost speed, in order to reach the bridge
over the Doon; for those who believe in witches
say that they have 110 power to cross running
water. Thanks to Meg’s fleet legs, he did escape
from their clutches, but she, more unlucky, came
off second best, — for the spry witch Nannie

caught her by the tail, and hung on till they
reached the key-stone of the bridge, when the
tail gave way in her hands,
“ And left poor Meggie scarce a stump! ”
When Tam o’ Slianter reached home, and re
lated his fearful adventure to his wife Kate, she
only said, “ I told you so,” and advised him to
go to bed and sleep liimself sober. I do not
know that she doubted her husband’s account of
the awful sights he had seen and the peril he
had been in; for she was an ignorant, super
stitious woman, wlio believed in warlocks, witch
es, and all that sort of thing. Then, I think it
likely he confirmed the strange tale he told, by
pointing to the one, or rather the stump of tin
one poor Meg had lost; but some of his shrewd
neighbors shook their heads and laughed, saying
Tam had had his mare docked in town, and had
either imagined the witch-dancc, from having
drunk so much ale, or had invented the whole
story to save himself from a sound rating, for
staying so late, carousing with his roystcring
I cannot say which supposition is the true one

but I was told at Alloway that after Burns wrote
“ Tam o’ Shanter” the hero of the ludicrous
adventure never heard the last of it, and was
laughed at to the day of his death, —as every
idle, careless, beer-tippling story-teller deserves
tc be.
The old bridge over the Boon is still standing.
We walked across it, and strolled up and down
the green banks of the little river, repeating
Burns’s song,—
“ Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon! ”
A few rods away from the bridge stands a no«
ble monument, erected in honor of the poet. It
overlooks nearly all the country which he loved
and made famous, — which was called, by the
right of his genius and fame, “ the land of
Burns,” — though not a foot of it did he act
ually own while he lived.
The grounds about the monument are plantr
ed with beautiful trees, shrubs, and flowers, as
though to keep green and sweet the memory of
the departed poet.
We next visited a pretty cottage, all clambered
over with roses, where we saw the sister and twc

nieces of Robert Burns. Mrs. Begg was but a
little girl wlien her brother died; but she remem-
oered him perfectly well, and delighted to talk
about him. She was a fine-looking, intelligent,
agreeable old lady, and I was sorry to part with
her and her interesting daughters.
We drove back to Ayr that afternoon, and
took the evening train for Glasgow.
And now, that you may all more fully under
stand what renders Ayrshire, and especially Al
io way, so interesting to tourists, I will tell you
something more of the poet-hero of that region,
in a little sketch of
Robert Burns was born on the 25th of Jan
uary, 1759, in a little clay cottage, in the parish
Of Alloway, Ayrshire. His father, William Burns,
was a farmer, — an honest, hard-working man,
intelligent, and sincerely pious. His mother,
Agnes Burns, was a gentle-hearted woman, rather
more romantic and poetic in her tastes than her

Very early in the life of her little Robert, Mrs.
Burns perceived his genius, and reverenced it as
a choice gift of God. Instead of trying to check
his taste for poetry, lest it should be in the way
of his getting on in the world as a peasant far
mer, she kindly encouraged it, as something that
might make the hard life of poverty beautiful and
She had by heart a great many Scottish legends
and poems, which she used to recite and sing to
her noble boy. On many a stormy winter day,
as she sat at her wheel, by the fireside, in their
little cottage, she sung to him wild, sweet ballads,
till his great, dark eyes would flash with fiery
passion, or grow dim with tender tears.
Both father and mother labored diligently and
constantly for the support and education of their
children, whom they loved with the tenderest
Robert and his brother Gilbert were early sent
to school; and being boys of remarkable talent,
and having an ardent desire to learn, they made
rapid progress, and surpassed nearly all the other
Robert was a handsome boy, with a fine, sturdy

frame; a well-formed head, proudly borne; a
rich, glowing complexion; dark hair, large brown
eyes, and a thoughtful, even serious expression
of face; though, in his early manhood, he was
renowned for wit and a reckless love of fun and
Poor Robert’s schooling was soon over; and
he was obliged, like his father, to labor inces
santly at farming other people’s land, — plough
ing, planting, and harvesting, year after year*
without a hope of earning more than a bare .sup
port. Mr. Burns continued very poor; his life
was a constant struggle with want and care ; and
it was the pleasure, as well as the duty of his
sons, to give him all the aid in their power.
When Robert was about sixteen, he began to
write poetry, — little, light, jingling songs at first,
which did not cost him much effort, or take his
thoughts long from his work, but which cheered
and consoled him under his many toils and priva
tions. From that time, he continued to write,
more or less, and always better and better, till he
died. For a long time, he had very little to en
courage him, for he was nothing but an obscure
ploughman; but he was conscious of noble fv)

»ngs in his heart, and great thoughts in his brain,
which the world needed to hear, and would listen
to, and treasure up at last.
It would have been far better for himself and
the world, if Robert Burns had never written
anything but what his purest feelings prompted,
and his conscience approved ; but I am sorry to
have to tell you that, when he was about twenty-
three, he fell in with some gay, unprincipled
young men, who led him astray; and after that,
he never was quite blameless in his life, and
wrote some poems which do him no credit, and
which he grieved to remember on his deatli-bed.
When I think of his many good qualities, — his
love and respect for his parents, his patient indus
try, his honesty and noble independence, — how
I long to blot those miserable things out of the
world, and out of everybody’s memory forever!
At last the young poet published a volume of
his writings, which made him so famous that he
was invited up to Edinburgh, by some of the most
celebrated people there. He spent a winter at
the capital city, where he soon found himself a
very great man indeed. Authors and scholars,
ords and ladies, vied witli each other as to who

should honor and praise and feast him most. But
through all this flattering attention from the rich
and titled,, he remained a plain, simple-hearted
farmer, — true to his honest class, not striving to
climb above it, or learning to despise it, — utterly
without affectation and pretension. He was a
little rustic in his manners, but never awkward,
bashful, or cringing. He had learned from the
mind and life of his good mother to respect and
admire noble women, — so he knew howto ad
dress duchesses and countesses; he felt that he
was a man, with a heart to love all high and beau
tiful things, an intellect to grasp and create grand
thoughts, and a soul that must live on forever,
with the life of God, — and he knew that the
proudest lord could be no more.
One day, when Robert Burns was dining with
some literary people, he happened to be struck by
some beautiful lines which were written under
neath a picture, on the wall, and inquired who
was the author of them. Nobody among the
great folks present could answer the question ;
but finally, a quiet, fair-haired boy of fifteen, with
a high, intellectual head, and thoughtful gray
eyes, modestly gave the name of Langhorne as

the writer. Burns turned and smiled upon the
lad, with a look which he never forgot through all
his own glorious life,—for that boy was Walter
It was supposed that some of the rich and pow
erful admirers of the “ inspired Ayrshire plough
man,” as they called Burns, would endeavor to
place him in a comfortable and honorable situ
ation, where he could devote the most of his
time to literature. But no; he was only “ the
fashion” with them for a little while, and then
they were after some other novelty. They gave
him a few dinners, bought a few copies of his
book, and then left him to struggle on for himself,
in the old way. The next year he solicited the
influence of his best friend among the nobility,
Lord Glencairn, to obtain a situation in the Ex
cise ; yet, for some reason or other, his request
was not granted. But another friend, Mr. Alex
ander Wood, a surgeon, still affectionately spoken
of in Edinburgh as “Kind Old Sandy Wood,” a
far better title than “ Earl ” or “ Duke,” hearing
of the poet’s wish, quietly went and procured him
the appointment. The duty of an Exciseman is
to arrest smugglers and the unlicensed manufac-

turers and sellers of liquor, — not a very pleas
ant, proper, or profitable business for the poet,
but it was the best that offered then: he accept
ed it gratefully, and always faithfully discharged
the duties of his office.
He returned to the country, married a young
woman whom he had long loved, named Jean
Armour, and settled down upon a farm, at Ellies-
land, near Dumfries.. Here he was very happy
for several years with his dear wife and children,
and here he wrote some of his noblest poems.
But his farm proved unproductive, his writings
brought him but little money, and he was finally
obliged to sell out, remove to Dumfries, and de
pend entirely on his office as Exciseman.
In December, 1795, he lost his only daughter,
a little girl of whom he was very fond, and about
that time his own health began to fail alarm
ingly. Biding over the country in all seasons and
weather gave him rheumatic fever, from which
he never wholly recovered. During the spring
and early summer of 1796 he was obliged to re
sign his business, which was a great sorrow to
him, as he thus lost the larger part of his salary,
and he feared that his family must suffer without

it. On the 5th of July he went to the sea-side,
hoping to get better there,—but it did him no
good. On the 7th he wrote to his dear brother,
Gilbert: “ I am dangerously ill, and not likely to
get better. God keep my wife and children! ”
On the 18tli he came home to die, and on the
21st he died.
Mrs. Burns was left with four little sons; but
the last prayer of the husband and father for his
dear ones was heard, and God did “ keep ” them.
He raised up friends to care for them, so that
they never came to want. Mrs. Burns lived to a
good old age, and found herself honored more
and.more, every year, as the widow of a great
poet. Two of her sons are yet living, and are
very much beloved and respected.
It is about sixty-four years since Robert Burns
died, and now his name is known and his songs
are sung the wide earth over, — which proves
that when God gives a man true genius, all the
neglect, poverty, and trouble in the world cannot
keep it down. Yet there were many who would
have lived and died happier, if, when they had the
opportunity, they had given good counsel and
brotherly aid to poor Burns, and, above all, com-

forted him on his death-bed, with the promise that
his family should not be friendless when he was
Dear children, when you read or hear sung
“ Auld lang Syne,” “ Bonnie Doon,” “ Highland
Mary,” “ John Anderson,” and other of the sweet
songs of Robert Burns, I am sure you will think
gently of the poet, — will pity him for his errors,
as well as for his misfortunes, and feel admiration
and gratitude for one who, out of a troubled life
and a sorrowful heart, made so much music for
the world.


LASGOW is considered tlie
third city of Great Britain in
wealth, population, commerce,
and manufactures. It is situ
ated in Lanarkshire, on the river Clyde, at the
point where it becomes navigable to the Atlantic
This city is said to have been founded as early
560, by St. Kentegern, who appears to havtf)

been remarkably active and enterprising for a
Churchman. Yery little is known of the early
history of Glasgow, except as connected with its
famous minster, founded in the reign of King
David the First, in 1186, and standing yet. It is
a dark, imposing edifice, more stupendous than
beautiful, and chiefly remarkable as being the
only cathedral in the realm which escaped de
struction in the Reformation. The Protestants of
Glasgow, very much to their credit, unceremoni
ously declared against the demolition of the
ouilding; but they made a sort of burnt-offering
to the spirit of the Reformation, of the pictures
and images of the saints, of altars and confes
After it passed into the hands of the Reformers,
it was called the “ High Kirk,” or church; and,
once upon a time, it occurred to the session, or
leading men, that it would be convenient and
comfortable to have seats, to sir upon during the
long sermons of their divines. So they had made
what are called “ forms,” for the male part of
the congregation; surlily forbidding the women
to make use of them; saying, that if they wished
to sit down during service they might bring stools

from home, — good enough seats for them. I
should like to see “ the brethren ” of any church,
in our age, and especially in our country, attempt
to carry matters over “ the sisters ” with such
a high hand!
But these were disagreeable, troublesome times
to live in, when the men were not only ungallant
toward the women, but quarrelsome among them
selves. They all went armed everywhere, — even
clergymen wore daggers and small-swords into
the pulpit, where they professed to teach the mild
and merciful religion of Christ.
Glasgow is now a handsomely built city, with
many fine public edifices, and pleasant, open
squares, and several noble monuments. But it
is a place of little historical or romantic interest,
and tourists do not often linger in it long. We
left the day after our arrival, without the un
pleasant feeling which we often experienced in
going from other places, that we left many things
unseen which could not be seen elsewhere.
The first object of interest on our route was
Dumbarton Bock, grandly towering up at the.
point of junction, of the Clyde and the Severn, ■—
crowned by its imposing stronghold, so often

mentioned in history, and most sadly memorable
as having once been the prison of Sir William
Wallace, about whom I shall say more by
and by.
Dumbarton Rock is one of those places which
seem to have been formed by nature for the sites
of castles and fortresses. It rises five hundred
and sixty feet above the sea, in several bare,
jagged, defiant points, apparently utterly im
pregnable, and yet its very supposed security
was once the cause of the castle being sur
prised and taken, in a very singular and daring
way, which I would like to describe to you,
f I lia).' n die. space; but I have not.
We took a steamer up Loch Long, an arm of
the sea. The scenery along this loch, or lake, is
very striking and picturesque, though less so
than that of Loch Goil, which branches off from
it. I never shall forget my delight in sailing
up this beautiful sheet of water. The shores
on either side are now bold, precipitous, and
rocky, now clothed with luxuriant foliage, dense,
dark woodlands, or lovely green lawns, sloping
down to the water. 0
Loch Goil is the scene of Campbell’s pathetic
oallad of “ Lord Tillin''s Daughter.”

At the head of Loch Goil we took a coach, and
drove several miles through a wild, romantic
glen, to a place, called St. Catherine’s, where we
crossed another lovely lake, Loch Fyne, to the
town of Inverary.
The most interesting sight at Inverary is the
Castle of the Duke of Argyle. This is a very
handsome and stately building, but rather modem
in its style. After all the palaces and castles we
had seen, this did not strike us as being outward
ly or inwardly very grand or wonderful. But,
according to the old Scotch housekeeper, who
shows visitors through the rooms, there is nothing
in all the world to be compared to “ y o Dook’s
braw castle.” I have my doubts wnetlier she
would admit that Solomon’s famous temple ap
proached it, in magnificence. In one of the state
apartments there is some very beautiful tapestry,
which the old lady solemnly affirms was woven
by no human hands, but by “ goblins, wlia are a’
deid noo,” — (who are all dead now). It was
only a fine specimen of the celebrated Gobelin
tapestry, made in France.
We enjoyed highly our strolls through the no
ble park and gardens of the castle, and a charm-

ing view from Duniquoich, a lofty hill, or, as 1
heard it called, “ a young mountain,” on the
Duke’s estate.
The following morning we tools; a carriage, and
posted through Glencoe, a grand, dark mountain
pass, to Tarbet, on Loch Lomond. After stroll
ing about the romantic shores, seeing some new
beauty at almost every step, we crossed the lake
in a row-boat, to Rowardennan Inn, where we
took ponies to ascend Ben-Lomond. This is a
very respectable mountain, rising three thousand
two hundred and ten feet above the lake. The
distance from the Inn to the summit is full
six miles, and we found the way either boggy
and slippery, or steep and rocky; — yet our
brave little ponies were fully equal to it,
and seemed to enjoy the climb almost as much
as we.
0, the vast and wonderful prospect which we
looked down upon at last! Lakes, rivers, valleys,
glens, castles, parks, cities, and a countless host
of mountains, stretching away to the north, like
the dark, mighty waves of a great sea heaved up
in a midnight storm.
But the sublime emotions which these grand

views excited in our minds, did not prevent us
from keenly enjoying the fun of our descent from
this lofty height. Our ponies, refreshed by a long
rest, and by browsing upon the summit, went
galloping, leaping, and plunging down at a right
jolly rate, and dashed into the yard of the little
imi in fine style.
The story which I shall tell you m this number
is sad and tragical, but I hope it will interest you
as the life of an illustrious patriot and a brave
Edward the First of England, a powerful and
warlike monarch, as you may remember, after
the death of King Alexander the Third, boldly
usurped the government and conquered the king
dom of Scotland. He was in fact the sovereign,
though he declared the weak John Baliol his
“ vassal-king,” and had him crowned at Scone,
under that inglorious title. He placed English
garrisons in all the Scottish castles, and left the

entire management of the country in the hands
of Englishmen, who proved themselves hard and
insolent rulers,—burdening with taxes, insulting
and tyrannizing over, the Scots, till that proud
and stern people became thoroughly enraged
against them. Yet for a long time they brooded
over their wrongs in silence and inactivity, hav
ing no one popular leader under whose com
mand they could hope to avenge them, and
recover the lost liberties of their country.
At last the man for the times came forth,—
not from the old Scottish nobility, but from the
middle classes. William Wallace was the son of
Sir Malcolm Wallace, of Ellerslie, Renfrewshire.
While yet a boy, his father and elder brother
were killed, in fighting against the English; and
thus his heart was early embittered toward the
usurpers and invaders.
At that time the Scots were a very rude peo
ple,— in many respects scarcely more than half
civilized ; but they were brave, resolute, and
hardy, and had been gifted by nature with a pe
culiar, passionate love of freedom. The men of
mountainous countries are not the stuff that
slaves are made of, -— being generally fierce,

determined, and indomitable, and seeming to
possess something of the fixedness of “ the ever
lasting hills,” and the spirit of the wild winds
uid the eagles that sweep about their summits,
it had cost King Edward an immense amount
of trouble, blood, and money to conquer Wales
and Scotland; and, after all, he never could feel
secure for a day that they would have the de
cency to stay conquered.
When matters in Scotland appeared to promise
most favorably for the new English government,
as the nation seemed finally crushed into sub
mission, there was a certain young lad quietly
pursuing his education in Stirlingshire, who was
destined to give his Majesty no little annoyance.
This was William Wallace.
As Wallace grew into manhood, he became
remarkable fo'- his personal strength and beauty.
He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, straight, and
athletic. His disposition was mild, generous, and
amiable ; and it is probable that, had it not been
. for his peculiar wrongs, and the wrongs and suf
ferings of the common people, — with whom he
had deep sympathy,— he might have led always
a quiet and peaceable life.

While he was yet very young, he was insulted
and attacked by an English officer in Dundee,
and, in self-defence, killed his antagonist. He
was then proscribed, and took refuge in Ayr
shire; where, collecting a force of brave coun
trymen about him, he waged an irregular war
fare against all the English who came in his
way, punishing them summarily for every act of
rapine and cruelty toward the poor and defence
less. He soon rendered himself notorious by his
bold exploits, not only in Ayr, but throughout
the neighboring shires; and many high-spirited
men joined him, thinking it better to live the
perilous life of an outlaw than the shameful
life of a slave.
He afterwards retired to the forest recesses
of Clydesdale, where he made himself more and
more formidable to the English,—-more and more
beloved by the poor Scots. At any time, the
sound of his bugle could summon recruits from
the hamlets around him, and his band of regu
lar followers daily increased. These were all
called “ Bobbers ” by their enemies ; but, in
stead of being so, they were mostly gentlemen
of respectable old Scottish families, who had

oeen robbed and outraged by the shameless in
At length William Wallace became so power
ful and renowned that the English tried in many
ways to buy him over to their interest. They
offered him wealth, high position, and titles, if
he would follow the example of most of the no
bles and gentry of Scotland, and swear alle
giance to Edward. But he proudly answered,
that no money could buy his honor; that for
no position at the court of a tyrant would he
exchange his life of hardship and peril in the
free forest-land; that no title was so noble as
that of an honest man.
A cruel sorrow and wrong finally determined
Wallace to take a yet more decided and promi
nent part against the merciless enemies of his
country. On one of his venturous visits to Lan
ark he met a beautiful young orphan girl, by the
name of Marion Bradfute. When he went home
he found he could not forget her,—that her sweet
face was always before him, and that he was no
longer happy in his wild, lonely life. After a
good deal of doubt and hesitation, — for the gen
erous hero felt that he ought to devote himself en-

tirely to his country, and not think of the peace
ful joys of love and home, — he sought the lovely
orphan, and left the matter with her to decide.
She thought that he might be soldier, patriot, and
husband at the same time, and, being a brave girl,
she loved him for his heroic resistance to oppres
sion, and, though he was proscribed as an outlaw,
was' not afraid to become his wife. They were
married, but privately, and Wallace, was obliged
to use great caution in visiting his bride, as it.
would endanger his life to be recognized at Lan
ark. Another reason for secrecy lay in the fact
that the English governor, a hard, brutal man, by
the name of Hazlerigg, had fixed upon Marion
as a wife for his son, — because of her wealth; she
being an heiress to considerable property, — thus
the knowledge of her marriage with Wallace
would doubly enrage him.
One fatal day Wallace was recognized and
attacked by some English soldiers, in the street
near his own house. He fought bravely, but
was about to be overpowered by numbers, when
his door opened and a fair hand beckoned him to
a temporary shelter. He dashed into his house,
and escaped through a back door into the woods

behind. It did not occur to liis own tender,
manly heart, that liis devoted wife would be
called to pay for his life with her own ; yet so it
was. Hazlerigg arrested Marion, and, having
ascertained that she was the wife of Wallace, put
her to death.
This savage deed filled all hearts with indigna
tion and horror. The fearful tidings were car
ried to poor Wallace, who, half distracted by
grief and anger, collected his band, marched to
Lanark, killed the monster Hazlerigg, and drove
the English from the town.
From this time Wallace devoted himself yet
more entirely and solemnly to the great work of
redeeming his oppressed country, and I fear —
for Wallace, with all his pure and lofty spirit,
was but human, and lived in bloody times —
swore a fearful oath to avenge, to the utmost, his
own terrible wrongs.
At length the whole country became thoroughly
aroused,—there were revolts occurring in all di
rections, and so many nobles and other men of
note flocked to the standard of Wallace, that
King Edward sent a large army to put the rebels
down again. The first great battle of Wallace
2 * C

was fought at Cambuskennetli, near the bridge
of Stirling, where the English were completely
defeated and routed.
Soon after this, the Scots conferred upon Wal
lace the title of “ Guardian of Scotland, in the
name of King John Baliol.” This was a sort of
regency, and excited some enmity among the
Scottish nobility; but Wallace bore himself with
much prudence and modesty, and never sought
to be anything more than the servant of the
people he so much loved. But he remained in
prosperity and power, and the nation in peace,
but about a year. It seemed that the Scots were
not yet worthy of freedom, at least the nobles
were not. They felt, or affected to feel, a mean
contempt for Sir William Wallace, because he
was not a man of high rank, and insolently re
belled against his authority. At the battle of
Falkirk, they who formed the cavalry fled at the
first onset of the English, and, through their
cowardly defection and the great superiority of
the enemy, Wallace and his gallant infantry were
This was a terrible reverse of fortune; but the
Scots did not give up the struggle for several

years, gaining some advantages against tremen
dous odds, but not succeeding as they would
have done had they unanimously placed Wal
lace at the head of affairs, r.eposing perfect con
fidence in his judgment and patriotism.
At length King Edward, by force or bribery,
reconquered one after another of the leaders, and
band after band of the dispirited army, till Sir
William Wallace and his followers were the only
true freemen in Scotland, — they alone having
refused to take the oath of allegiance, and ser
vilely submit themselves to the hated usurper.
The hero, saddened and disappointed, but not
broken in spirit, or quite despairing, retired to
his old haunts among the forests and mountains,
and his old outlaw life, — again summoning his
faithful adherents, again alarming his enemies
with his bold bugle-blast. Thus he lived for
more than seven years, laying plans for his
country’s deliverance, and patiently waiting for
an opportunity to carry them out.
But the same God who inspires patriots and
martyrs, in his mysterious providence permits
the existence of traitors and betrayers. A sol
dier and a Scotchman was at last found mean

and miserable enough to betray Sir William Wal
lace, and sell himself to eternal infamy, for the
reward offered by the English. This was one
Sir John Monteith, who treacherously got pos
session of him and delivered him up to his en
emies, on the 5th of August, 1305.
After a short imprisonment in Dumbarton Oas
tie, Wallace was conveyed to London, and was
tried in Westminster Hall, charged with High
treason. To this charge he simply replied, “ I
could not be a traitor to Edward, for I nevei
was his subject.”
During this trial the noble prisoner was, like
his Divine Master, crowned in mockery,—being
compelled to wear a garland of green leaves, as
the king of robbers and outlaws.
He was condemned to death, — drawn in a
sledge to the scaffold, and beheaded. His body
was then divided into four quarters, and stuck
upon pikes on London bridge.
Little is known of the last hours of Wallace,
except that he died bravely, yet meekly, — pro
testing that he had done nothing for his coun
try of which he repented, and that he only re
gretted not having accomplished more.

Edward the First doubtless thought that he
had struck down the spirit of Scottish freedom,
with the life of its noblest champion. But free
dom is an immortal principle, planted by God
in the heart of man, and nothing can utterly
uproot and destroy it. The rich blood of Wal
lace seemed to water and nourish it into a new
growth, — his name became doubly dear, as that
of a martyr to liberty, and grew to be the
sacred watchword of his struggling countrymen.
To this day it is more honored and beloved
than that of any monarch — with the exception,
perhaps, of Robert Bruce — that ever sat on the
throne of Scotland.
I have not, like the historians, given you
the details of the fierce skirmishes and bloody
battles in which Wallace was engaged, — for my
heart is not in such things. It seems to long
more and more, day by day, for that blessed
time of “ peace and good-will ” promised to us,
when a tlie nations shall learn war no more,” but
dwell on the quiet, happy earth like one great
family, — like the children of God, as they are.
But because Sir William Wallace did the best
and noblest he knew how, in the dark and

troublous times in which he lived,—because lie
was generous, brave, true, and self-sacrificing,
even to death, — I deeply reverence his mem
ory, and have had a heart-felt pleasure in writ
ing out his story.

fnrjia %mml atiii Latrine.

OCH LOMOND is considered
the finest of all the Scottish
lakes. It is twenty-three miles
in length, and five in breadth
at the widest, and contains a multitude of the
most lovely and fairy-like islands you can im
agine. The scenery of its shores is wonderfully
beautiful and grand, — now filling the heart with
delight, now thrilling it with awe, or lifting it
in loving gratitude to God, who has placed us in

a world of so much beauty and sublimity, and
gifted us with souls to enjoy and reverence the
works of his hands.
The day of our trip up this lake was delightful.
A soft autumnal sun goldened all the landscape,
and the blue waves danced in a light, pleasant
wind, while the atmosphere was so clear that we
could see to a great distance. To the northward,
the dark, lofty mountains; to the southward, a
fair, fertile country; on either side, shady and
flowery islands, or noble shores, with rocks, crags,
and caves; smooth, grassy slopes, or abrupt,
heathery heights.
I remember a little incident of this trip, tri
fling enough, but which struck me -at the time.
I observed a large hawk hovering in the ah’, near
our boat, and circling lower and lower. Sud
denly, he darted downward, and caught a fish
from the water. He then began to ascend rather
slowly, impeded by the weight of his prey. It
happened that there was on board a Scotch duke,
who had been sporting in the Highlands, and
who now, having his fowling-piece loaded, took
a shot at the bold marauder, and, it seemed,
slightly wounded him, for a few feathers floated

lightly down the air; he gave a hoarse scream,
and, in his pain or fright, dropped the fish, which
fell, apparently lifeless, into the lake. Scarcely,
however, had it touched the water, when the
indomitable hawk was after it again ! He caught
it in his talons, and bore it off in triumph,
screaming down a democratic defiance to the
duke. I remember saying, that none but a
Highland hawk would .be so courageous and per
We landed at Inversnaid, on the east shore of
the lake, and drove through a rough, narrow
glen, about five miles long, to Loch Katrine. On
our way we passed the ruins of Inversnaid fort,
erected to check the famous outlaw-chief Rob
Roy Macgregor, and a forlorn Highland cabin, in
which his wife, Helen Macgregor, was born.
Loch Katrine is most famous as the principal
scene of Scott’s charming poem, “ The Lady of
the Lake; ” but its beauty would alone distin
guish it above nearly all other lakes. It is only
about ten miles long, and at no place more than
two broad. A mere pond, compared with our
great inland seas, it is surely not grand, yet the
scenery which surrounds it is some of the grand
est, as well as the most enchanting, in the world.

We descended Loch Katrine by the tiniest
steamer I ever voyaged upon; whose speed was
proportional to her size. She passed over the
little waves with little nervous jumps, puffed
out a little column of smoke, and left an exceed
ingly little wake behind her. Yet we reached
the most beautiful and romantic part of the lake
at a very favorable time,—just at sunset, when
mountain, stream, island, rock, and green wind
ing shore were bathed and glorified in gorgeous
lights of purple and gold.
i\ear the eastern shore is “ Ellen’s Isle,” a
charming spot, particularly interesting to the
admirers of “ The Lady of the Lake.” A little
way beyond Loch Katrine lie “ The Trosachs,”
or “ bristled territory,” a wild, mountainous
country, through which winds the dark defile
of “ Beal-an-Duine. ” the place where, according
to the poem, the “ gallant gray ” of Fitz-Jamey
sunk down and died.
Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, and the countrj
around, are closely associated with the melan
choly and romantic history of the Macgregors f
of whom I will try to give you a clear though
brief account.

The Highlands of Scotland have been, for
many centuries, inhabited by a remarkable race
of people, called Celts; naturally hardy, proud,
and warlike, and descended from the ancient
Britons, who took refuge in that almost un
known country at the time when the Bomans
invaded and conquered Great Britain. To this
day they have a distinct language, the Gaelic,
utterly unlike the English or the Scotch dialect
of the Lowlands. Their dress is very peculiar
and picturesque; but, as you have all doubtless
some idea of this from pictures, I will not stop
to describe it.
The Highlanders, in old times, were divided
into distinct tribes, or “ clans.” Now-a-days
they keep up the names of these, but the old
system of clanship, with its distinguishing cus«
toms and prejudices, has almost utterly passed
All the members of each of these clans believe
themselves descended from one great ancestor,

and were generally called by his name, with
the addition of Mac, which signifies sons. Each
clan had its chief, supposed to be a descendant,
in the most direct line, of the founder of the
family. This chief they all implicitly obeyed,
even when to do so was to go against their own
wishes and rebel against the king.
These different clans occupied distinct moun
tain districts, and were far enough, I am sorry
to say, from dwelling in peace with each other
or their common enemy, the Lowlanders. In
deed, they were such a bold, belligerent peo
ple, that it might be said of them, that they
were never happy, except when in trouble and
tumult, — never content, except when fighting
and marauding. Yet they had their own good
qualities. They were brave, enduring, liberty-
loving, trustworthy, hospitable, and unrivalled
in their loyal devotion to their hereditary chiefs,
and those they recognized as their rightful sov
ereigns, especially (which was noblest of all)
when those sovereigns were in difficulty.
The most remarkable of the Highland clans,
in character and history, were the Macgregors,
descendants of Gregor, son of Kenneth Mac-

Alpine, King of the Scots and Piets. This takes
them back a long way; and, indeed, the Mac-
gregors made a great boast of their antiquity,
saying, that “ Hills, waters, and MacAIpines were
the oldest things in Albion.”
They were a proud, powerful, and wealthy
clan down to the time of King Robert Bruce,
when their reverses and persecutions began.
That monarch, whom they had not favored,
undertook, in the height of his power, to check
and humble them, by depriving them of a large
portion of their possessions. From that time,
misfortunes and wrongs thickened upon their
heads, but without dismaying or subduing them.
All the other clans submitted to the king, and
received from him charters for their lands, but
the Macgregors scorned to secure themselves by
such concessions.
In the fifteenth century it was proclaimed that
their territory had all been bestowed upon their
enemies, the Campbells. But they stood sturdily
upon their lands, and bade the new owners come
and take possession if they dared' They were
too powerful to be driven off; yet, having lost
their legal rights, they were regarded as aliens

and outlaws, and persecuted by all their neigh
bors. They obstinately refused to' recognize their
new landlords, desperately opposed all the forces
sent against them, and made frequent and de
structive incursions into the territory of their
foes. They divided into two separate bands,
one on the banks of Loch Rannoch, the other
living in the neighborhood of Loch Lomond;
there firmly planting themselves, and standing,
like hunted wild animals, at bay.
Through reign after reign, and century after
century, they continued to be a doomed, perse
cuted, and suffering, but unconquerable people,
— clinging to their old homes, fighting and har
assing their old enemies, the Campbells and Men-
zies, till the chiefs of those clans began to think
that, but for the name of the thing, they might
as well not have such an unruly and profitless
set of tenants.
The reign of James the Sixth was perhaps
their darkest, time. Then, for the slaughter of
the Colquhouns and Buchanans at Glenfruin, or
the Glen of Sorrow, a royal decree was passed
abolishing forever the n.ame and clan of Mac-

All that bore that surname were commanded to
exchange it for some other, or suffer death, and
every man was forbidden to wear arms. Those
who rebelled against these severe laws were
hunted down like beasts, by their old enemies,
now in the employ of the king, and assisted
by the royal troops. Through a long series of
years, law after law was passed, bearing harder
and harder upon them, till it was a wonder their
very souls were not crushed out of them by op
pression. The most brutal of all, was one com
manding their women to be branded with the
mark of a key in the face; but I believe that
no one was ever found bold or cruel enough to
execute this law.
During the civil wars of Cromwell, the Mac-
gregors rallied and fought bravely for Kyig
Charles, notwithstanding all the wrongs inflicted
011 them by his father, James the Sixth. On the
restoration of Charles the Second, they were al
lowed to reassume their ancient name, and were
again recognized as an independent clan. After
the English Revolution, the hard laws against
them were revived, but never very strictly carried
out, — and as the civil wars of the two countries
o D

came to an end, the persecutions of this unfortu
nate clan gradually ceased.
The story of Rob Roy is told in full, in Scott’s
Novel by that name, and in the introduction to
that work. I can only give you a slight sketch
of the character and life of this last hero of the
Rob Roy Macgregor Campbell, as he was
obliged to call himself, was descended from one
of the ancient chiefs of the proscribed clan, who
lived at Glengyle, on Loch Lomond. He was
born in comparatively peaceful times, received a
good education, and was bred to a respectable
calling. He married Helen Macgregor, of Inver-
snaid, and for several years led an industrious and
blameless life, never dreaming of being any tiling
but an honest and peaceable man. His occupa
tion was that of cattle-dealer, — collecting cattle
in the Highlands and driving them to markets
in the Lowlands, or to England.
It happened, unluckily, that Rob once entered
into a partnership with the Duke of Montrose,
in a great cattle speculation, which turned out
very badly. Rob came home from England al
most ruined, as he had invested his all; and

when lie went to settle with the Duke, that ig
noble nobleman insisted on having back every
penny of the money he had risked, with the
interest! This, of course, could not be; Rob
offered him his share of the little that was left,
which he would not accept, but advertised the
unfortunate drover as a swindler and a thief,
and offered a reward for his apprehension as a
This finished the ruin of the Macg'regor; he
fled to his native hills and glens, and took up
the life of an outlaw and freebooter.
The Duke of Montrose seized upon Rob’s
property of Craigroyston; his men sold all the
stock and furniture, and even insulted and
abused Helen Macgregor,a proud and pas
sionate woman, who, with her husband, from
that day swore vengeance against Montrose and
his party.
Rob Roy soon found himself at the head of
a formidable band of Macgregors, who had their
own wrongs to avenge, and their own living to
get, by desperate means. Their robberies were
principally of cattle, and they were called cear-
nachsy or “ cattle-lifters.” Rob said that he was

only carrying on his old business in a new
Rob himself was a generous and benevolent
freebooter, — if such a thing can be, — and very
like the English Robin Hood, — often taking
from the abundance of the rich to supply the
needs of the poor. He believed that he had
been cruelly driven into his lawless life, and
often declared that he would much prefer a
more, honorable and peaceable career. In the
Rebellion of 1715 he took the side of the Stu
arts, and had a commission in the rebel army.
But when that rash enterprise failed, he was
obliged to return to his old haunts, when he
again devoted himself to the great business of
his life, — tormenting the Duke of Montrose.
Two or three times the Duke made out to cap
ture the outlaw; but just as he was rejoicing
over his good luck, Rob slipped, eel-like, out
of his hands. Once lie built a fort at Inver-
snaid, to protect the country against the bold
robber, and distributed arms among his ten
ants; but Rob very soon routed the garrison,
and got possession of every one of the Duke’s

As Rob Roy grew to be an old man, lie felt
a stronger desire to return to an honest way
of living. He had an idea of resuming cattle-
dealing, and redeeming his reputation! He even
addressed a petition to one of King George’s offi
cers for pardon and permission to take his for
feited place in society, without danger of arrest
and death. This touching request was taken
no notice of, and poor Rob was obliged to die
an outlaw. He died in the year 1738, a very
old man, professing the Christian’s hope. Just
before he breathed his last, he requested his
piper to play the mournful Gaelic dirge, — Ha
til mi tulidh,— “We return no more.”
He was buried in the old churchyard of Bal-
quidder. No name is on the tombstone, but a
broadsword is carved upon it, as a sign of his
fierce spirit and lawless life. Yet he seems to
rest as tranquilly as any innocent babe in all
the churchyard ; the birds are not afraid to
sing above his grave, nor the grass and flowers
to creep over it ; neither do dews and sun
beams refuse to descend upon it.
So, as the bold robber-chief seemed subdued
and humble at the last, may we not hope that

he yielded liimself, like an erring hut repent
ant child, to his God, and that Divine peace
and forgiveness rested on his soul.
The lesson, dear children, which I would draw
from these old stories of wars, tumults, wrongs,
and oppressions, is a grateful trust in the steady
advanoe of the world toward a time of peace,
justice, and brotherhood. True, there are wars
now,—sad, terrible wars,—but they are between
rival nations., not bitter, bloody strifes between
clan and clan, family and family. The clans of
Scotland now dwell in perfect peace, indeed are
almost merged together, and it would now be as
impossible for any one of them to be unjustly per
secuted, as that any man should be driven to the
life of an outlaw because of a failure in a business
undertaking. When you hear unhappy, croaking
people say, “ Ah me! the world is getting worse
and worse! ” don’t believe them. It is constantly
growing better, and the nations are slowly draw
ing nearer to each other, and so, to God. Yet,
there is room enough for improvement, and it is
not for us to be puffed up with our civilization
and righteousness.
We look back with pity and horror to the

hunted and half-barbarous Macgregors of two or
three hundred years ago; but they had some
noble qualities, which would put to the blush too
many in our enlightened times. In proof of this,
T will relate
One morning a young Macgregor, the son of
an old chieftain residing at Clenurchy, went out,
with a party of his clansmen, to shoot on the
moors. During the day they fell in with a
young gentleman by the name of Lamont, and
toward night invited him to go with them to
an inn, for some refreshment. All went very
pleasantly and merrily for some time, and then
a quarrel arose, about some trifle, between young
Macgregor and the stranger, over their wine. In
a moment, swords were drawn, and at the first
pass Macgregor fell dead! • Lamont made his
escape and fled, but was fiercely pursued by the
friends of the man he had slain. All night long
he ran through the wild Highland country, and
in the morning sought refuge at the first house

he saw. An old man was standing at the door.
“ Save my life ! ” panted out Lamont; “ I am
pursued by enemies.”
“ Whoever you are, you are safe here,” replied
the old man, taking him in, and commending
him to his wife and daughters. But presently
the Macgregors came up, and told the generous
host that his only son had fallen in a quarrel,
and that he was harboring the murderer! For
a moment, the poor old father bowed his face in
his hands,'crying out bitterly, “O my son! my
son ! ” His wife and daughters burst into sobs
and shrieks ; the clansmen pressed forward, with
curses and threats, toward Lamont, who gave
himself up for lost, when the chieftain sternly
waved them back, saying: “ Be quiet; let no
man touch the youth ! He has the Macgregor’s
word for his safety, and, as God lives, he .shall
be safe while he is in my house.”
He faithfully kept his word; and even accom
panied Lamont to Inverary, with a guard, and
having landed him on the other side of Loch
Fyne, said: “ Lamont, you are now safe, if you
keep out of the way of my clan. I can no
longer protect you. Farewell, and may God
forgive you.”

The happiest part of this story is, that when a
new persecution of the Macgregors broke out,
and the old chief of Clenurchy was driven from
his property, he and his family were offered a
home in the house of Lamont, who ever after
devoted himself to the work of atoning to the
poor exiles for the wrong he had done them.
Dear children, let us bless the good God who,
in all ages and in all countries, has implanted
such generous and beautiful sentiments in the
human heart.

Stirling Castlt.

E TRAVELLED from tlie Tro-
sachs to Stirling by the stage
coach, taking outside seats, so
as to have better views of the
lovely and noble country through which we
The most interesting object on our way was
the ruined castle of Doune, on the banks of the
Teith, once one of the proudest strongholds in

all Scotland. It was built by Murdock, Duke oi
Albany, who was afterwards, with his two sons,
beheaded upon Stirling Castle-hill, from which he
could see “ the bannered towers ” of his princely
The old town of Stirling is grandly situated
on an eminence, near the river Forth, — but con
tains nothing of remarkable interest, except the
castle, which stands on the highest point, over
looking the country for a great distance, in every
direction. Within sight from its walls are no
less than three of the most celebrated of Scot
land’s battle-fields, — Cambuskenneth, Falkirk,
and Bannockburn.
Stirling Castle is now only kept up as a for
tress, but throughout the reigns of the Stuarts
it was a favorite and important royal residence.
Among the interesting objects and places which
were pointed out to us by the soldier who con
ducted us through the old palace and castle, was
the room in which King James the Second killed,
with his own hand, the Earl of Douglas, — an
unprincely and most inhospitable act; though this
Earl, like the greater portion of his family, was
ambitious, unscrupulous, cruel, and rebellious.

We were also shown a narrow road, descending
the precipice behind the castle, and called Bal-
langeich, which signifies in Gaelic,“ windy pass.”
James the Fifth used to pass out of the Castle
by this way, when he went on secret expeditions,
in disguise, as he was very fond of doing, — and
he took a name from it, calling himself, “ the
Guidman of Ballangeich* He was a merry,
daring prince, a sort of Scotch Haroun Alraschid,
and had many amusing adventures under his as
sumed character, — one or two of which I will
One time, when the king had distinguished
foreign guests, and was feasting them with great
state and jollity at Stirling, he was informed by
his steward that provisions were running rather
low, and sent off in haste to the hills for venison.
The hunters were successful in killing a fine lot
of fat deer, which they slung upon the backs of
horses, and set out for Stirling.
It happened, unluckily for them, that they were
obliged to pass the Castle of Arnpryor, in the dis
trict of Kippen, the seat of one of the Buchan
ans,— a rude, independent, and care-for-naught
* “ Guidmnn" signifies farmer.

Highland chief. It happened, also, that this
laird was entertaining a large company, and,
like the king, had found himself short of provis
ions, though what he lacked in meat he made
up in liquor, which flowed without stint, I assure
you. In this predicament, when he was told that
so much good venison was passing his castle, he
did not hesitate to sally out at the head of a baiid
of his wild Highlanders, and seize upon it. The
royal keepers remonstrated against this bold act,
which they called “ high treason,” warning him
that he and his clan would have to pay dearly
for the stolen deer, — perhaps head for head.
But Buchanan laughed right saucily, saying,
that if James Stuart was king in Scotland, he
was king in Kippen, and, flinging the fattest buck
over his shoulders, he strode into the Castle, fol
lowed by his men, bearing the remainder of the
prey; while the royal keepers rode on to Stirling,
with lightened horses, but hearts heavy with dis
appointment and chagrin.
Now, kings are quite as easily touched through
their stomachs as through their sense of honor
and dignity; —in this case, you see, James might
justly consider himself wronged and insulted in

both ways. He was liot-tempered as well as fear
less, so lie instantly ordered his horse and set ont
alone to the castle of Buchanan. He arrived
just as several huge haunches of his venison were
set upon the table, and the feasting was about
to recommence. He found a tall, broad-chested,
long-bearded warder at the door, who, not recog
nizing the new guest, threateningly presented his
battle-axe to him, saying gruffly that the high
and mighty Laird of Arnpryor was at dinner, and
must not be disturbed by such as he. But the
king slyly slipped into his hand a piece of gold,
— which somehow seemed to toueh his heart
at once, — and said, “ Go up into the ban-
queting-hall, my friend, and tell your master
that the Guidman of Ballangeich has come to
dine with the King of Kippen.”
The warder grumbled a little, but went to the
laird, and told him that there was a troublesome
fellow at the door, with a red beard, who called
himself “ the Guidman of Ballangeich,’’ and
insisted on coming in to dine with the King of
When the bold Buchanan heard this, he turned
pale, left the table in great haste, and running

to the door, fell at the king’s feet, and begged
his pardon for making free with the royal veni
son, and sending such a saucy message to his
sovereign. Now, much of the king’s anger had
evaporated in his gallop from Stirling; he was
tired and hungry, he smelt the smoking hot ven
ison, and he heard within the hall the merry
jingling of wine-cups and the pleasant laughter
of ladies, — so, instead of taking the laird’s
head, which would have done him no good, or
confiscating his lands, which he did not need, he
very sensibly concluded to show mercy to his
rash subject, — told him to get up from his knees,
assured him that he had only meant to give him
a little fright, that he had really ridden up from
Stirling to dine with him in a neighborly way,
and begged that lie might have that pleasure,
before the venison should get cold. So the two
went in together, and the feast went on, without
further interruption.
After this, the Laird of Arnpryor mended his
manners, and was a faithful and humble subject,
though he was a little apt to boast to strangers,
of “His Majesty’s visit to my poor castle.” By
the way, he never could get rid of the title^'of
“ King of Kippen.”

At another time, when King James was out on
one of his secret and solitary excursions, he was
attacked by four or five ruffians, on the narrow
bridge of Cramond. Being very strong and a
good swordsman, he was able to defend himself
for some time against all his enemies, but he
received several slight wounds, and his strength
was about failing him, when a peasant came run
ning out of a barn near by, and seeing one man
beset by such an unfair number, generously took
his part. This peasant was armed only with a
flail, but with that he boldly attacked the assail
ants, beat upon their heads and shoulders so
sturdily, — in short, gave them such a sound
thrashing, that they were soon glad to take to
their heels. He then took the king into his barn,
gave him water and a towel to wash the blood
from his hands and face, and, afterwards walked
with him homeward to protect him from another
Without letting out the secret of his own rank,
the king asked his preserver who he was. The
peasant answered that his name was John HoWie-
son,-—that he was a poor bondsman on the farm
of Braehead, which belonged to his Majesty.

James then asked if there was any wish which he
had particularly at heart.
“ 0 yes ! ” replied John; a if I could own the
farm I labor on, I should be the happiest man in
the world, — happier even than the king, with all
his riches and glory ; for it is n’t likely that I
would be bothered with so many cares, or beset
with so many enemies as he.”
The king sighed at this, and honest John con
tinued : “ And now, if I may be so bold, please
tell me who you are.”
“ (J, I’m the Guidman of BaUangeich, —just
a poor man who has a small office in the king’s
palace; but if you will come to see me, next
Sunday, I will try to recompense you for your
assistance to-day, — at least I can show you the
royal apartments.”
John thanked him heartily, and so they parted.
The king did not fail to give orders that his
country friend should be admitted, when he should
ask at the palace-gate for “ the Guidman of Bal-
The peasant came at the time appointed,
dressed in his “ Sunday’s best,” and found the
Guidman in the same disguise ho had worn in
his adventure on the bridge of Cramond.

James conducted his visitor through the state
apartments, and was not a little amused by his
simple-hearted astonishment at their splendor and
grandeur. At length he asked if he would like
to get a peep at the king.
“ By all means! — if I can do so without offend
ing his Majesty,” replied John.
“ 0, no fear of that,” said James. ‘ ({ A cat
may look at a king,’ you know.”
“ But how shall I know his Grace from all
the great nobles around him. Will he wear his
crown ? ”
“ No, but he will wear a hat, or bonnet, — all
the rest will be bareheaded.”
He then led his friend into a great hall, filled
with noblemen and officers of the court. John
looked curiously about him for a moment, and
then whispered : u Where is he ? — where is he ?
1 can’t see him.”.
“ Did n’t I tell you,” said James, “ that you
vould know him by his hat ? ”
“ I’ faith then,” exclaimed John, “it must be
either you or I, — for they are all bareheaded
but us two.”
The king and courtiers laughed heartily at this ;

and when John Howieson left the palace, it was
as the owner of the farm of Braehead, which he
and his descendants were always to possess, on
condition that the proprietor should be ever ready
to present an ewer, basin of water, and a napkin
for the king to wash his hands, whenever he
should pass the bridge of Cramond, or visit
Holyrood Palace. This form, in remembrance of
the service done his king by John Howieson, was
observed by him and his family down to the time
of George the Fourth of England.
King James-did not always show himself so
kind and merciful as in these adventures. Though
in general, and for those times, a just, wise, and
generous monarch, he was in some cases very
stern, stubborn, and revengeful. In his early
youth he had been wronged and really oppressed
by the Douglases, the most powerful, rapacious,
and unruly family in Scotland, and from the time
when he made his escape from them, and set up
as an independent king, he devoted himself with
all his energies to humbling and subduing these
formidable enemies. It was a great, good work
for the people ; but it hardened his naturally kind
heart, and in some instances left on his memoiiy

the reproach of injustice and cruelty. He seized
upon the estates of all the Douglases, drove them
out of the kingdom, and swore that he would
never employ or show favor to any one of the
hated name.
How well he kept his vow we shall see in the
following story: —
Among the banished Douglases, there was one
who had been a great favorite with the King, for
his generous and manly qualities, his 'personal
strength, and skill in all warlike exercises. This
was Archibald Douglas of Kilspindie. The king
used to make much of him on ,all occasions
of hunts and tournaments, and called him his
“ Greysteil,” after a famous champion in a ro
mance of that time. On his part, Archibald was
devotedly attached to the king, and never lent
his honest countenance to any plot against him.
However, when his great family was disgraced,
not even he was excepted, but sternly driven into
exile with the rest, — King James, in his implac-

able hatred against the haughty race which for
centuries had ruled, not only the Scottish peo
ple, but their sovereigns, being resolved to spare
not even the friend for whom his own heart
secretly pleaded. So Archibald of Kilspindie
was obliged to seek a refuge in England, where
he remained several years.
At length, getting to be an old man, and pin
ing to see his dear country once more, and the
king whom, for all his harshness, he yet loved,
he resolved to return to Scotland and make one
last attempt to touch his sovereign’s heart. He
went to Stirling, and one day, when the king was
returning from the chase, threw himself in his
way. James knew him at a distance, and said,
with a smile, “ See, yonder is my brave Grey-
steil! ” But the next moment, he remembered
his vow, and hardened his heart, and when lie
met his old servant, he pretended not to recog
nize him, but put spurs to his horse, and rode fast
up a hill towards the castle. Poor old Archibald
Douglas wore a heavy coat of .mail under his
clothes, but his heart so yearned for a reconcilia
tion with his king, that he would not let him
pass, but ran along, by his side, and kept up with

him, looking into his face now and then, with a
wistful, reproachful, heart-breaking expression.
But they soon reached the castle. James
sprang from his horse and hurried in, leaving
the Douglas without a kind word or look. The
old man sunk down at the gate exhausted, and
faintly asked for a glass of wine. But the warder,
knowing the king’s hatred for the whole kith and
kin of the Douglases, gruffly refused him this
charitable courtesy, and sent him away. King
James afterwards reprimanded his servant for
this inhospitable treatment, — but I don’t see
with what reason. “ Like master, like man.”
The king was the more angry at this attempt
to soften his heart, for feeling conscious that he
had done wrong in resisting it; and the next day
he sent word to old Archibald that he must pre
pare to go again into exile, this time to Trance.
After this cruel act, he went out to amuse him
self with hunting. He rode furiously all the
afternoon, and said nothing pleasant to any one.
Towards night, he got separated from his follow
ers, and finally found himself lost in the deep
forest, though in fact he was but a short distance
from Stirling. In this strait, he was very glad to

meet a boy, some eleven or twelve years old, wbo
was picking liis way on foot through a rocky
“Hold, sirrah!” cried Ring James; “turn
thee, and show me the way to Stirling Castle.”
The lad paused, and looked up, showing a
proud, handsome face, though it now wore a
lialf-sorrowful, half-sullen expression.
“ Thou speakest in a lordly style enough, Sir
Huntsman,” he replied; “ an’ thou wert the king
himself, thou mightest be a little more cour
teous,— though, i’ faith, ’t is hardly likely thou
wouldst be. However, I will guide thee to a
spot whence thou canst see the towers of Stir
ling: ’t is but a little way from here.”
“ Thanks, my brave lad. And now, wilt thou
tell me who thou art ? Thou hast gentle blood,
“I am called young Archie of Kilspindie, or
the little Douglas,” answered the boy, proudly.
The king frowned as he rejoined: “Knowest
thou not that that is a dangerous name to own
hi Scotland ? What dost thou here ? ”
“ I came from England with my grandfather,
Archibald of Kilspindie, who came to solicit the

king’s grace, and is banished to France for his
pains. I go with him.”
King James liked the fearless frankness of
the lad, and, smiling, asked: “ Hast thou ever
seen the king thou speakest of ? ”
“No, Sir Knight, nor care I to see him. I
like him not.”
“ Why, prithee
“ Because he is a churlish, unprincely fellow.
When my grandfather, who had done him no
harm, but good service, humbled himself to
come in his way, he forgot that
'A king’s face
Should give grace,’
and made him — a brave old man,.— a Douglas!
— run beside his horse, as I run beside thine ;
and, when he fainted at his gate, would not let
his servants give him a cup of wine.”
“Nay, nay, I—that is, he knew nothing
of that!” exclaimed James. Then, after a mo
ment, lie added : “ What wouldst thou say if I
should tell thee that thou hadst been talking to
the king himself ? ”
Archie had already begun to suspect as much,

but now he answered bravely, though with a
deep blush: “ I should say that his Majesty had
heard honest truth for once. But, see ! — there
is thy castle. Farewell! ”
“ Stay,” said James ; “ I like thy spirit, al
beit thy words are rather sharp and pert. Come
with me to the castle for a little while ; surely
tho'i fearest not to go with thy king ? ”
“ No, sire,” replied the little Douglas; “ though
I have heard say an ancestor of thine invited an
ancestor of mine into that same castle, and then
slew him with his own hands. I do not fear
thee; thou art not treacherous, — thou art only
somewhat cruel. I will go with thee.”
When they arrived at the castle, the king
led the way at once to the apartments of the
queen, — the beautiful Mary of G-uise, a French
princess, — and presented Archie to her, say
ing : “ See, I have brought your Grace a strange
pet, — a saucy page, an unfledged eaglet, a
lion’s cub, — a young Douglas ! ”
“A Douglas! — has not your Majesty vowed
to show no favor to one of that name ? ” said
the queen, casting an admiring glance on the
handsome boy.

<e Ay, but thou hast not,” replied James. “I
give him to thee. He has done me a service,
and I am willing that thou sliouldst make much
of him, for his own and his grandfather’s sake.
I loved Archibald of Kilspindie once.”
“ Wilt thou stay with me, my bonnie lad ? ”
asked the queen, kindly laying her jewelled
hand on the curly head of the boy.
Archie was softened to tears by her goodness,
and his voice trembled as he answered: “ I would
fain stay with your Grace, — not for your royal
state, but for your sweet face and gentle voice,
— but I must go with my grandfather. I am
all he has in the world.”
“But,” said the queen, “ he is poor and old,
and he must go away to France, which, though a
brave, beautiful land, will seem strange and un
lovely to thee. Here at my court thou wouldst
be at home, — thou shouldst receive a knightly
training, shouldst have money and servants at
thy command, and my kind favor to count upon.
Wilt thou stay?”
“ Alas, I cannot! — even if your Grace could
make me prince of the realm. I could not for
sake my grandfather,” replied the little Douglas,

with noble firmness. And he went out directly
into the cold, dark night to seek him, •— out into
a cold, dreary world with him. He stayed beside
him faithfully till the exile died, less of age and
infirmities than with home-sickness and a broken
heart, and young Archie was left alone in a
strange land, poor and friendless, — yet happier
than the King of Scotland, who soon after died
of a fever, brought on by disappointment and
remorse, in the very prime of his life.


HAVE told you that
within view from Stirling
Castle is the memorable field of
Bannockburn, — so called from
the stream, or burn of Bannock,
which runs through it. The great battle here
fought, and the hero who here immortalized
himself, had so much to do with the history
and fate of Scotland, that I think I must go
back a little, and briefly relate the story of

This great patriot was born in 1274, probably
at Turnbury Castle, Ayrshire, where he spent
his boyhood. At the age of sixteen, he became
Earl of Carrick, on the death of his mother.
In his early manhood, Bruce was not so noble
a character as Wallace. Though by blood, one
of the most prominent candidates for the Scot
tish throne, he, like his father and grandfather,
lived mostly in England, at the court of Edward
the First, the enemy and master of his country.
But the patriotism, sufferings, and heroic death
of Wallace made a deep impression on him; he
began to grow restless and remorseful, and at
last an incident occurred which was the means oi
greatly changing his. life and character. Like
the other Scottish nobles who had taken the oath
of allegiance to Edward, Bruce was actually in
his service, and more than once, I am sorry to
say, fought against his own countrymen, strug
gling valiantly for their freedom. After one of
those unequal skirmishes, inglorious for the Eng
lish, and doubly so for the traitor Scots who fought

on their side, it happened that Bruce sat down
to supper without washing his hands, which were
somewhat stained with the blood that had dripped
down from his battle-axe. This was observed by
the nice English lords who sat near him, and they
shrugged their shoulders, and whispered to one
another, with sneers, “Look at that Scotsman,
who is eating his own blood! ”
These words reached, not only the ear, but the
heart of Bruce, and filled him with horror and
disgust, — not at the ungrateful English who, in
spite of all his services, despised and hated him
for a traitor,— but for his own unnatural and
cowardly conduct. The blood upon his hands
might truly be called his own, for it was that of
his countrymen, his brothers, and should have
been as dear to him as that which flowed in his
own veins. So guilty and sorrowful did he feel,
that, instead of resenting the words of the English
lords as insults, he rose up meekly from the table,
and, going to a chapel near by, he flung himself
on his knees, and, weeping bitterly, prayed God
to forigve him for his great sin. His sudden and
humble repentance seems much like that of the
Apostle Peter, for denying his Lord ; and there

was almost as much reason for it; for next to
the crime of forsaking and disowning our Divine
Master, is treason to our fellow-men.
Bruce did not stop at repentance, as too many
do, but made a solemn vow to. God to try to atone
for his past life, by doing all that he could to re
gain the lost liberties of his country. So he left
the English court and army forever, and joined
his poor countrymen, resolved to conquer or die
with them.
At this time he was about thirty years of age,
a tall, powerful, grand-looking man, who, like
Wallace, excelled in feats of arms and gallant
exploits. He was usually remarkably just and
generous, but he had a quick and passionate tem
per, and was sometimes cruel and remorseless in
his resentments.
In his claims to the Scottish crown, Robert
Bruce had a rival in Sir John Comyn, called “ the
Red Comyn,” to distinguish him from another of
the family, who, from his dark complexion, was
named “ the Black Comyn; ” and when he re
solved to make a brave effort to drive the English
back where they belonged, he thought he had
better see this rival, and try to come to some

amicable agreement with him about their mutual
pretensions to power. So he requested an inter
view with Sir John Comyn, who met him in a
church, before the high altar. During their talk,
they unhappily came to high and abusive words.
I hope the Red Comyn was the first to use them;
and, finally, Bruce, getting greatly provoked, drew
his dagger, and stabbed his rival. He then rushed
out of the church, and called for his horse. Some
friends, who were with him, seeing him look pale,
asked what was the matter. “ I am afraid I have
killed the Red Comyn,” he replied. “ It will not
do to leave such a matter in doubt,” said one
of them. “We will make it certain! ” So they
ran in and despatched the wounded man with
their daggers.
I think tins was the most cruel and dastardly
deed ever committed by Robert Bruce. He had
invited Sir John Comyn to meet him, as a friend,
and at a place where the lives of all men were
considered sacred, and where nothing should
have tempted him to strike even his worst enemy.
But, as through all his life he never ceased to
grieve and suffer for that sinful and unmanly
act, — as he spoke of it with tears on Ins death-

bed, and as God and liis murdered rival have
doubtless forgiven him, long, long ago, I think
we may as well try to judge him charitably; -—
at least, we ’11 drop the matter here.
Bruce now publicly threw off all allegiance to
the King of England, and, with a small army of
devoted adherents, marched through the South
of Scotland, took several fortified towns, and
drove away the English invaders. His friends
then insisted on his being crowned at Scone, the
place where the Scots made their kings, in those
days. There have been few men ever found
great enough to decline kingly honors, when
they could get a chance at them, — but in this
case, it was really a brave and patriotic thing in
Bruce to accept them, as they increased tenfold
the perils of his position. Now, Edward had
made off with the Scottish regalia some time be
fore,— so a crown had to be manufactured for
this occasion, — a plain, slender rim of gold, but
it answered quite as well, and was as becoming
to a rude soldier, as though it had dazzled the
beholders with marvellous carbuncles, diamonds,
and pearls.
The honor of crowning Scottish monarchs be-

longed, by ancient right, to the family of Macduff,
Earl of Fife. The Earl at that time was one of
the renegade nobles in the service of Edward,
and scornfully refused to perform his duty. But
he had a sister who it seems was made of better
stuff; — this was Isabella, Countess of Buchan,
who, though married to another minion of the
English, bravely declared for Bruce. Hearing
of his present dilemma, she took possession of
her husband’s horses, and posted off to Scone,
vowing that King Robert should be crowned by
a Macduff, after all! She actually placed the
crown on his head with her own fair hands,—
and it answered just as well, and was doubtless
quite as agreeable to the Bruce, as though her
haughty brother, the Earl, or a venerable arch
bishop, with a beard a yard long, had performed
the rite.
In the mean time, intelligence of the new rising
under the new leader had reached old King Ed
ward, in London, and thrown him into a terrible
rage. He set about raising an army at once, and
hurried it off to Scotland, under the command
of Aymer de Vallance, Earl of Pembroke. Then
he sat down and wrote to the Pope, telling him

all about the killing of the Red Comyn, — not
dwelling on the murder, — that was a small, ev
ery-day affair, hut on the sacrilege of shedding
blood in so holy a place as a church, — and the
Pope being duly horrified, laid upon Bruce the
awful curse of excommunication.
Then King Edward set out himself with an
other army for the North,—vowing that he would
never return till he had put down the rebellion
and slaughtered all the rebels. But before he
had reached the borders of Scotland, a mightier
monarch called him hence, — and he went with
as little delay as any common man.
When he found that he was really dying, he
gave directions that his dead body should be
boiled in a cauldron, till the flesh all came off
of the bones, — and then that the bones should
be sewed up in a bull’s hide, and carried in front
of the army, against his foes, the Scots. But
Edward the Second thought best to disregard
this strange last request of his father, and had
him decently buried in Westminster Abbey, with
this inscription on his tomb: “ Edward The
Hammer of the Scotch; ” — a very good epitaph,
for he was always hammering away at that people,

— knocking them down as fast as they got up.
But they were rid of him at last, — even his poor
old bones never went against them, and I doubt
if they would have frightened them much if they
had. It was only live Edwards they cared for.
Luckily for them, the new king was much
inferior to the old, and after making a feeble
attempt to carry out his father’s plans, returned
with his army to England.
Before this, however, Bruce had suffered severe
defeats from the English under Pembroke. Dis
aster followed disaster, till he was driven with his
family and adherents into the mountains, where
they were exposed to great hardships and perils.
He was even obliged at last to part from his
queen, whom, with the Countess of Buchan and
others of her ladies, he left under his brother
Nigel’s care, in the castle of Kildrummie, Aber
deenshire, while he and his men took refuge in
the island of Bachin, off the coast of Ireland.
Here he soon received the sad news that the
castle of Kildrummie had been taken, his brother
killed, and the queen with her ladies carried into
This was a very dark, discouraging time with

Robert Bruce, and it is not strange that he felt
almost ready to give up his brave undertaking.
But, it is said, a slight incident renewed his
resolution and decided his and Scotland’s fate.
One morning, as he was lying on his miserable
couch, he noticed a spider trying to fix a web
to a beam over his head. Three, four, five, six
times he tried, and failed; and then Bruce re
membered that he had fought just six battles
against the English, without success, and he said
to himself: “If the spider succeeds this seventh
time, I ’11 take it as a lucky omen, and will try once
The spider did succeed, and Bruce took cour
age, never to lose it again.
I have always had full faith in this interesting
little tradition, because I believe that God often
influences the hearts of men in such unexpected
ways and through such humble means, and be
cause it teaches us that in his providence not
even spiders are to be despised.
Soon after tliis incident, Robert Bruce returned
to Scotland, to renew his struggle with the Eng
lish, and his unworthy countrymen allied with
them. I cannot begin to relate here all the ad-

ventures lie met with, all the dangers he braved,
all the hardships he endured, from that time to
the battle of Bannockburn.
There are many thrilling stories in Scottish
history told of him and his adherents, especially
of his brave and faithful followers, James Doug
las, familiarly called “ the Good Lord James,” —
a beautiful title, which I hope he deserved, — and
Sir Thomas Bandolph, a nephew of Bruce’s, and
worthy of his blood. Some of the accounts of
their prodigious exploits and hair-breadth escapes
it really strains one’s faith a little to believe; but
it is certain that they struggled long and bravely,
and suffered much for freedom’s dear sake, and
that Bruce nobly redeemed himself from the re
proach of his early life. He was beset by perils
and foes,—wronged, hated, persecuted, outlawed,
and hunted by bloodhounds, — but he kept up
his heart and the hearts of his followers, — was
always prompt and fearless in action, yet patient
in waiting, trusting in God. And this, remem
ber, was not for a few months alone, but weary
years, as the great struggle he engaged in lasted
somewhat longer than our Bevolutionary war.
At length the decisive battle of Bannockburn

was fought on the 24th of June, 1314. Bruce
had chosen his position, and had time to pre
pare the field,-by strewing a portion of it with
sharp points of iron called calthorps, and bj
having pits dug, which were concealed by
heather and brushwood, — a clever, though
hardly fair plan for laming and entrapping the
war-horses of the English. But King Edward’s
army was greatly superior to Bruce’s in num
ber, and far better armed and equipped; so the
Scots may be pardoned for resorting to some
The English host came up with great pomp
and parade, resolved to spare not a soul of all
the rebel army, but to crush at once and for
ever the last hope of Scottish freedom.
The battle began in the morning, and soon
became one of the most desperate and terrible
engagements ever fought. Before rushing to
the encounter, however, the Scots fell on their
knees in prayer, imploring the aid of the Al
mighty arm; in their cause. All Christian ar
mies have chaplains, who pray against each
other as soldiers fight; but, of course, nobody
can suppose that God is ever on both sides.

For my part, I do not believe that He is . ever
present, helping one band or nation of his chil
dren to slaughter another ; but I do believe
that He always favors freedom and justice, by
inspiring the hearts of patriots with a sense of
right. Men are braver and stronger fighters
for a good conscience; and it is better to go
praying than cursing even into battle.
So, though the English fought well, and
seemed much the stronger, they were beaten,
and driven, out of Scotland, which thenceforth
belonged to the Scots.
True, other efforts were made, under both Ed
ward the Second and Third, to reconquer the
country, but Bruce and his good generals were
too strong for them; and finally the latter Eng
lish king was glad to renounce all pretensions
to the Scottish throne* and to give his sister
Joanna in marriage to Robert Bruce’s son Da
vid. True, after Bruce’s death, the Scots had a
great deal of trouble and strife; but the fight
ing was among themselves, — a succession of
family quarrels and civil brawls, — they had, at
least, that comfort.
Robert Bruce reigned for several years, wise-

ly and prosperously, and died peacefully, at his
favorite residence on the banks of the Clyde,
in his fifty-seventh year. In his last moments,
he requested his beloved Douglas to have his
heart embalmed, and to bear it to Jerusalem, — :
fighting his way, if necessary, through the hos
tile Saracens who held the Holy Land. The
Good Douglas promised with many tears ; and
when his royal master was dead, he collected
a gallant train, and set out for Palestine, bear
ing the heart in a silver casket.
But, on his way, he stopped for a while in
Spain, where it happened he found King Al-
plionso at war with the Moors; and, thinking
that Saracens were Saracens wherever they could
be met with, he plunged into the fight, and was
killed. His body was found lying over the sil
ver casket containing the Bruce’s heart, as though
he had thought of it last. This was carried back
to Scotland, and buried under the high altar of
Melrose Abbey,—which was as well for the heart,
and no worse for the soul of the hero, which was,
and is, safe in the keeping of God.
The character of Robert Bruce was by no
means perfect; but his faults belonged mostly

to his time, — his virtues were all his own. He
had a bad early training, — he began life wrong;
but he proved himself a true man at last, arid
left to his country not only a great fame, but a
memory beloved and blessed forever.
In conclusion, I will relate a little incident,
which I consider the most beautiful thing re
corded of Robert Bruce. I have called him
Robert Bruce all along, because I think that
simple name sounds nobler than his formal title
of “ King Robert the Eirst.” Don’t it strike
you so ?
Not long after Robert Bruce had put down
his enemies, and fixed himself firmly on the
throne of Scotland, his brother, Edward Bruce,
a gallant and courageous man, was invited by
the Irish, who were in the midst of one of their
countless rebellions against England, to come
over and be theii leader and king.
Robert, who loved his brave brother veiy
dearly, not only gave him an army, but went

himself to assist in the noble undertaking. The
two Bruces gained several battles at first; but
the English forces, which were very strong, were
led by excellent generals, and the Irish, who, it
seems, never did know what was good for them
selves, or who were their best friends, joined
their old oppressors in great numbers, from jeal
ousy of their new allies. So things took an un
fortunate turn, and the little army of the Scots
was obliged to give way and retreat before the
multitude of their opponents. At last the gen
erous Edward Bruce was killed, and his follow
ers went home, wishing the Irish joy of the rul
ers they had preferred to him.
Some time before this, however, Hing Robert
had been recalled to Scotland by pressing duties;
but he went, fearing the worst, disappointed and
The incident which I promised to relate is
this: —
One morning, when the Bruces were about to
commence a hasty retreat, before a large army
of English and Irish, whom it would be impru
dent to meet, and just as King Robert was about
to mount his horse, he heard wild and piteous

cries, which seemed to come from some woman in
great distress.
“ What is the matter ? ” he asked of one of his
“ Oj nothing, your Majesty, but a poor woman,
a laundress, who has a new-born babe, and is not
well enough to go on with us. She is crying
with fear that she shall be killed by the enemy,
and I do not doubt she will, if we leave her be
What was to be done ? They had no carriages
or carts, and there was not time to construct a
litter to carry the poor woman and her baby.
Most generals would not have given a second
thought to them, knowing the great danger of a
halt just then; but Robert Bruce, looking round
on liis men, said, with a generous glow on his
cheek, and manly tears springing to his eyes :
“All, fellow-soldiers, let it not be said that a
man who has once himself been a helpless babe,
and nursed by a mother’s tenderness, should
leave a woman and her infant at the mercy of
barbarians. In the name of God, let the odds
and the risk be what they may, I will fight, rather
than leave these poor creatures behind me! So

let the army draw up in line of battle, instead of
He was cheerfully obeyed by his officers and
men, — for, thank Heaven! nothing is so catching
as a genuine spirit of heroism and humanity, —
but, to the surprise of all, their enemies sheered
off, and refused to fight. Sir Edmond Butler,
the English general, thought from Bruce’s halt
ing and offering battle, that he had received a
large reinforcement, and judged it not safe to
hazard an engagement.
So the Scottish leader suffered no harm for his
heroic delay; and yet, had the result been less
fortunate, I do not believe he would ever have
repented of that generous and merciful deed,
which I am sure you will now agree with me
is the best and kingliest act related of Robeit


N our route from Stirling to
-I? Edinburgh, we had a view of
jjlfl the ancient palace of Linlith-
" gow, once one of the noblest
royal residences of Scotland. It stands high on
the margin of a lovely lake, and, though in
ruins, has still a great deal of architectural
beauty and stateliness.
Linlithgow was at first little more than a fort,

built by Edward I., and afterwards occupied by
his troops. It was taken by some of Robert
Bruce’s men in the following clever and daring
The English garrison was supplied with hay by
a farmer in the neighborhood, of the name of
Binnock, who secretly favored Bruce. The Scots
of old were famous for stratagems; and so, when
one day the English governor peremptorily com
manded this Binnock to furnish a large quantity
of hay, the farmer laid a plan for making him
pay rather more than the market price for that
article. He concealed a large band of liberty-
loving Scots near the gate of the fort, and charged
them to be still, until they should hear the signal-
cry, which was to be “ Call all! call all! ” Then
he placed in the cart several strong, brave men,
some half-dozen of whom were his own sons, —
all well armed and lying on their breasts, — and
these he covered completely with hay. The
driver was a faithful, stout-hearted fellow, who
carried in his hand a small axe, or hatchet. Bin
nock himself walked behind the cart, humming a
merry tune. The warders, seeing only the farm
ers with the load of hay, which they expected,

opened the gates and raised the portcullis, to let
them into the courtyard. But as soon as they
got well under the gateway, Binnock gave a sign
to the driver, who instantly cut the oxen free
from the cart and started them onward, — which
of course left the cart standing right under the
arch of the gateway. At this very moment, Bin-
nock shouted out his signal, “ Call all! call all! ”
and drawing a sword, which until then he had
kept hid under his farmer’s frock, he laid about
him famously, like the vigorous, half-barbarous
Scot he was. The armed men leaped up from
under the hay and rushed upon the English
guard, who tried in vain to close the gates, or
drop the portcullis with that cumbersome ox-cart
in the way. Then the men in ambush outside
came pouring in, and the castle was soon taken,
and all the English garrison killed, or taken pris
Robert Bruce, when he became king, rewarded
Binnock by the gift of a fine estate, which his
family long enjoyed. I once visited at the house
of one of the descendants of this patriotic farmer,
Mr. Francis Bennoch, a Scottish gentleman, who,
though living in England, still dearly loves his

brave fatherland. I well remember how one day,
when I happened to notice his armorial crest,
— the device a cart and the figure of an ox, I
think, — my friend told me this story of the tak
ing of Linlithgow, in liis own pleasant way.
The palace was at its highest point of splendor
during the reigns of James IV. and V. and Mary
Queen of Scots. This famous- princess, the
daughter of James V. and Mary of Guise, was
born in an apartment on the western side of the
palace, which is yet standing.
Doubtless many of you have read the story of
this unhappy queen, but I trust none of you will
be unwilling to refresh your memories with a
brief review of her sad, eventful life here.
When James V. died, there was a great deal
of scheming and quarrelling between two rival
parties for the regency, — for the privilege of
wielding the supreme power during the long
minority of his infant daughter. The two candi
dates were the queen-mother, and the Earl of

Arran, the nearest male relative of the princess.
So there were disputes, battles, and troubles of all
sorts, before Mary of G-uise, a clever and high-
spirited woman, succeeded in placing herself in
the chair of state, — about the most uncomfort
able seat in the world. I cannot believe that the
poor woman thought herself happy after all, sur
rounded as she was by enemies, and oppressed by
the great cares of government; but it is to be
hoped that she felt she was in the way of her
duty to her daughter and the country.
But happily all this time the pretty little Queen
Mary knew nothing of these great political strifes
and intrigues. Safe and quiet in her nursery at
Linlithgow, she slept and ate, smiled and crowed,
cut her teeth, and learned to walk and talk as
care-free and happy as any peasant child in all
her kingdom. Her dark time was not yet come.
When Mary Stuart was six years of age, she
was sent to the French court, to be educated
under the care of her mother’s relatives. She
was accompanied by four little ladies of rank
about her own age, and all bearing her own
name. These remained with her for many years,
and were called “ the Queen’s Marys.”

It must have been a pretty and touching sight
to see the little queen and her little maids taking
leave of their mammas, and setting sail for a far,
strange land. How they must have cried and
struggled and begged, titled ladies though they
were, to go back on shore with those dear mam
mas ! What a dismal, damp, unsteady place the
ship must have seemed to them, and how dark
and deep and awful the sea must have looked to
them, the poor little girls ! But their tears have
all been wiped away, long, long ago, in the land
where there is “ no more sea,” nor parting, nor
grieving; — it is pleasant to think of that.
Mary Stuart soon became quite contented in
her new home, and grew in beauty and accom
plishments, — as did her Marys, though in an
inferior degree, of course. They would almost
have thought it disloyal to equal their mistress,—
high treason to surpass her.
When Mary was about fifteen she married
Francis, the Dauphin, who soon after became
King of France. But not long did Mary enjoy
the glory of being queen of two kingdoms; her
husband, Francis II., died after a very.brief
reign, and finding herself neglected and unkindly

treated at the court of his brother, Charles IX.,
and his mother, Catherine de Medicis, as thor
oughly wicked a woman as ever lived, she re
solved to return to her own country, where she
was now needed, — her brave mother having died
of disappointments and very weariness, glad it
seemed to rest, even in the grave, from the
trouble and turmoil of her delegated sovereignty.
When Mary left France she was just eighteen,
— an elegant, accomplished, and clever princess,
— graceful, winning, and marvellously beautiful,
if we may trust the poets and historians of her
time. I cannot describe her, as it has never been
exactly settled, I believe, which of the many pic
tures of her yet in existence is the true one. If
any of you ever visit the great palace of Ver
sailles, you may see as many as half a dozen
different portraits of her, as different as can be;
so you can have your choice. Some prefer one,
some another.
Scotland seemed but a poor and dismal coun
try to the young queen, coming from the rich,
sunny land and gay court of France. Her Marys
had loving mothers and kindred to welcome them
home; but her mother was in the grave, and she

had .no kindred on whose love she could depend,
no home but gloomy castles and formal palaces.
Ah, what a glorious tiling it is to be a queen !
The Scottish people, however, were very glad
to get their legitimate sovereign back, — were
proud of her grace and beauty, and rejoiced over
her in their own rude, simple way. Sir Walter
Scott relates, that, on the evening of her arrival
at Holyrood Palace, no less than three hundred
of the citizens of Edinburgh appeared under her
window, and serenaded her all night long, “ each
doing his best on a three-stringed fiddle.” This
terrific serenade has not been set down by histo
rians among poor Mary Stuart’s great trials, but
I doubt not she found it hard enough to bear at
the time of it.
Queen Mary’s misfortunes were of three dif
ferent kinds, — religious, domestic, and political.
Her first misfortune was in being a Catholic,
when the larger number of her people were Prot
estants ; her second was in marrying a handsome
simpleton; and her third grew out of these two.
Her being a Papist was an enormous sin in the
eyes of many of her Protestant subjects, which
not all her loveliness, graciousness, and accom*

plishments could atone for. There was a cele
brated Protestant preacher of that time, named
John Knox, who used to thunder away at the
court and queen, — sometimes rebuking her to
her face in 110 very respectful terms, — little
thinking, poor man ! how full his own stern heart
was of bigotry and intolerance. She may have
deserved all he said; for she was fond of pleasure,
and devotedly attached to her own church, for
all its wickedness. I do not know but that, had
she had the power, she would have burned here
tics in her zeal, like her cousin, Mary of Eng
land, — though I doubt it much, for she was not
naturally cruel; but I do not much doubt that
Mr. Knox would have used gentler language in
her presence, if-she had had that power. As it
was, his party was too strong to be put down, and
he spoke his mind bravely, and made a clean
breast of it.
The husband which Mary Stuart chose, princi
pally for his beauty and showy accomplishments,
was her kinsman, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley.
He was young, rash, self-willed, ambitious ; and,
with little sense and less heart, was a very poor
husband for any woman, — and the proudest

queen is, after all, a woman, with a heart to
love and suffer. I think that Mary Stuart, with
all her wit and spirit, would have regretted her
r oolish choice after a while, if her husband had
been ever so good and faithful; but she might
have made the best of it, and gone on loving him
in a dull sort of a way, and been tolerably happy,
as the world goes. But as it was, she not only
tired of the spoiled, passionate, faithless young
man, but grew to hating him bitterly. This is
how it came about: She had in her suite, as
private secretary, a handsome Italian youth, by
the name of David Rizzio, who was a great
favorite with her, and whom she treated with
rather unqueenlike familiarity. Many of the
courtiers were enraged at this, and hated Rizzio
with a fierce, scornful hatred, —not for any crime
of his,—not out of envy or jealousy,—0 no! but
because, forsooth, he was a foreigner, poor and
low-born. But no jealous noble of them all
hated as Darnley hated. He saw the society of
the clever and agreeable Italian preferred to his
by Mary, who no longer tried to conceal her con
tempt and dislike of her husband, and he vowed
to destroy her favorite. Now this David, like

David of old, was skilled in music, and Mary,
like King Saul, loved to be soothed by his play
ing and singing, when she was vexed or sorrowful.
But the time came when he sang no more sweet
songs for her delight and consolation. One night,
as he sat at supper with the queen and her ladies,
in a small cabinet, Darnley and several other
noblemen suddenly burst upon the merry little
party, and murdered the Italian before the eyes
of his mistress. Poor Eizzio clung to the dress
of the queen, and implored her to save him, and
she begged for his life with prayers and tears, —
but all in vain! The conspirators dragged him
through her bedchamber and the anteroom to
the head of the stairs, where they despatched
him with no less than fifty-six wounds. So the
poor youth paid dearly for the queen’s favor, and
so it was that the queen grew to hate her miser
able husband.
Two months after this, Queen Mary gave birth
to a little prince, who was afterwards James
VI., and who inherited his father’s heartless
ness, his mother’s irresoluteness, and the beauty
of neither.
The next favorite of Mary was a very different

man from the gentle, song-singing Italian, — the
Earl of Bothwell, a dark, stern, bloody-handed
profligate. Again the virtuous courtiers were in
dignant, — again the preachers thundered away
at her for her misplaced fondness ; for the wicked
earl had a wife, and she had a husband of her
own,—such as he was. It was this .Bothwell
who brought about the next domestic misfortune,
or crime of the queen, — the murder of her hus
band. This took place at a religious house, called
“Kirk of the Field,” just beyond the city walls,
where Darnley was lodged for a time, being ill
with the small-pox. One dark winter night, the
house in which he lay was blown up by gun
powder, deposited under his chamber by the hire
lings of Bothwell. The earl himself was present,
and saw the awful deed accomplished. Darnley
was found in a neighboring field, not much dis
figured, but dead, of course. So he paid dearly
for being a king-consort.
It has always been a great question with histo
rians whether Mary was, or was not accessory to
the murder of her husband, and it remains a
question which I do not think will ever be de
cided beyond all dispute. It is one of those

secrets of human history which rest with God ;
but, as it is pleasanter to think well than ill of
our fellow-beings, let us hope that she was wholly
innocent of so dreadful a crime.- We can safely
do that.
The worst thing against Mary was her weak,
suspicious conduct in regard to Bothwell, after
the murder. She did not bring him to a fair
trial, but continued to treat him with apparent
favor. Perhaps she was afraid him, for he was
very bold and powerful. But . such cowardice is
a crime in itself ; and certain it is, that most of
her subjects believed her not only weak, but
wicked, and began to murmur against her, and
declare that they would no longer be ruled by the
profligate murderess; and when she suffered
Bothwell to divorce his wife, and actually mar
ried him herself, the people broke out in open
rebellion. ,
To her great mortification, Mary found that
her army would not fight for her and her detested
husband, but began to disband and go over to
their foes. Bothwell, who, like all bullies and
assassins, was cowardly and treacherous, forsook
his wife, and ran awav from the first battle,—

ran till he got to the sea, where he took up the
life of a pirate, a very proper career for him.
Queen Mary surrendered to the confederated
Scottish lords, who took her in triumph to Edin
burgh, where the people insulted her most grossly
as she rode through the streets, accusing her of
murder and all sorts of crimes, which conduct
to a humbled and defenceless woman, however
erring, does not speak very well for the humanity
of the people, or the magnanimity of the victors
who conducted her. But I am afraid that many
who were most noisy in crying out against her in
her hour of misfortune, would have fawned at
her feet if she had still been in power, — even if
she had made way with as many husbands as
Bluebeard did wives.
Queen Mary was then imprisoned in Lochleven
Castle, on a small island, where, with a few faith
ful attendants, she was strictly guarded by stern
jailers, while her half-brother, the Earl of Mur
ray, assumed the regency and the guardianship
of the young Prince James. At Lochleven Cas
tle, Mary spent nearly a year in sorrowful cap
tivity, — walking sometimes in a little mouldy
garden, embroidering with her maids, or looking

out, from her lonely tower, across the lake, for
deliverers that never came. At length, by her
beauty, her smiles and tears, she so moved the
kind heart of a young lad in the service of the
Laird of Lochleven, one William Douglas, that
he got possession of the keys of the castle, and at
night let out the queen and one of her maids,
and rowed them to the shore, where several of
Mary’s friends, some of them powerful Catholic
nobles, were awaiting her.
When William Douglas left the castle he locked
the gates and flung the keys into the lake,—
where, strange to say, they were found by a fish
erman, only a few years ago.
. Queen Mary soon rallied a considerable army
of adherents, which met the regent’s forces at
Langside, and were defeated. Mary beheld the
battle from a hill near by, and at its close,
mounted her palfrey, her heart wild with grief
and despair, and rode sixty miles before she
She took shelter in the Abbey of Dundrennan,
where she made up her mind to seek refuge in
England, and place herself under the protection
of her cousin, Queen Elizabeth. This was the

most fatal step in a life that was full of fatal
steps. Queen Elizabeth hated her beautiful rival,
and from the first treated her, not as an unfor
tunate sister sovereign, but as a captive and a
criminal. For nineteen years she kept her a
close prisoner, — only removing her from one
gloomy castle to another more gloomy,—till at
last she caused her to be tried for various crimes,
and then, when the judges had pronounced her
guilty, signed the warrant for her execution, ?—
with a few strokes of the pen, condemned her to
death. Mary Stuart was beheaded at Fotherin-
gay on the 8th of February, 158T.
It takes but a little time and few words to say
that Elizabeth imprisoned her cousin Mary nine
teen years before beheading her,—but it was a
long time for one woman to hold a deadly spite
against another. It is an awful thing to think of!
Wearily, lonesomely, sorrowfully must those
long, dark years have passed to poor Mary Stuart.
— so that when death came at last, even though
armed with the headsman’s axe, he was as wel
come to her as was to the apostle the angel who
delivered him from prison.
Mary died very heroically and like a Christian,

forgiving and praying for her enemies. She left
some faithful friends, who wept for her such tears
as all the riches of the English queen could not
purchase, — all her power could not wring from
any human eye. She had also a pretty pet span
iel, who was greatly attached to her, and had to
be taken by force from her bleeding body, — and
now, through nearly three hundred years, the
dumb grief of that poor little dog seems to plead
with our hearts for his mistress.
Elizabeth Tudor lived without love, and so
“ without God in the world.” Mary Stuart may
have been as erring as that other beautiful Mary
who poured precious ointment on the feet of our
Lord Jesus, — but she also “loved much,” and
so we may hope was forgiven.


WE had but a few
days to spend in the
capital of Scotland, and,
as ill-luck would have
it, those few days were
unpleasant. We happened there in the begin
ning of the wet season, early in October, and
the sun scarcely shone upon us during our stay.
He came out quite bravely once in a while, but
seemed scared at the black, ugly clouds driving

up against him, and went in directly. We were
obliged to go about sight-seeing under a big,
dripping umbrella, or trying desperately to peer
through a drizzling “ Scotch mist,” which is a
lazy, sullen sort of a rain; so you will not
wonder if I seem to have rather a dim, uncer
tain recollection of the grand old town.
Edinburgh has a very beautiful and imposing
site, “upon a cluster of eminences, at the dis
tance of a mile and a half from the Eirth of
Forth,” which you know is an arm of the sea.
It is surrounded by a picturesque country, with
noble wooded hills and flowery valleys, — plains
and rivers and wild waterfalls, — parks, gardens,
castles, and ivied ruins, — lovely and wonderful
to see.
Upon the loftiest eminence stands Edinburgh
Castle, on the site where, twelve hundred years
ago, Edwin, a Northumbrian king, first built a
fort, around which eventually sprung up a town,
called, in his honor, Edwinsburgh, or Edinburgh.
In the Celtic language, this town is still called
Dunedin, or “ the Hill of Edwin.” In this way
the king carved his name and founded his fame
on a rock, though he was probably a rude, war-

like prince, who could neither read nor write.
The present castle is a very old building, and,
from its position, so strong that it has never
been taken by assault, though several times by
siege, and once by surprise.
Randolph, Earl of Moray, — Bruce’s Randolph,
— was one of the brave Scots who took it by sur
prise in a very bold and singular way. A Scot
tish gentleman by the name of Francis came to
him in private, and told him that, when he was
a young man, he lived in the castle, where his
father was keeper, and that he knew a way of
scaling the crags and wall, unknown to any other
soul. It seems that his father, the keeper, had
kept him a little too strictly, shutting him up
within the dreary fortress, as though he had
been a prisoner, or a criminal, till he rebelled,
and, being a brave, adventurous fellow, contrived
a plan of 'nightly escape to the pleasant town
below. He made use of a small ladder for de
scending the wall, and then boldly slid, or swung
himself down the face of the steep rock, where a
slight misstep, or a moment’s giddiness, might
have cost him his life. He always returned
before daylight, by the same way, clambering

up tlie rocks, and scaling the wall ; and he was
careful to choose dark nights for his expeditions,
as there was great danger of his being discovered
bj the sentinels. Yet he had gone and returned
safely many times,for, “to tell the honest truth,”
he said, “ there was then a bonnie lassie living
down in the GrasSmarket, who was glad to see
me when I came, and sorry to have me go.”
When the brave soldier said this, he blushed
through his grizzly beard and the bronze of fifty
summers; but his broad chest heaved with a
great sigh when he added: “ She was my wife
afterwards; she is dead now, and it will be, I
confess, a sad thing for me to climb again the
steep path I used to leap down with so light a
heart; yet, for my country’s sake, I ’11 do it. I
am ready to lead any who are brave enough to
Randolph gladly accepted his offer, and one
dark night, with a party of thirty picked men,
undertook the ascent of the rock, led : by Fran
cis. They were obliged to scramble up the
steepest portion of the way; to swing them
selves from cliff to cliff, where the breaking of
the least point of the rock, or the loosening of

a stone, would have been a fatal accident.. Their
greatest danger was of being discovered by the
watchmen of. the fortress, as they could all have
been destroyed by a few large stones rolled
down the rock. While they , were on their per
ilous way, and before they had reached the shel
ter of the wall, they heard the guard going its
round, to see that all was well. The Scots
crouched down against the dark, rock, and the
stoutest heart among them beat fast with anx
iety; but what was their dismay when a stone
came rattling down upon them, and a sentinel
shouted from the wall: .“ Aha ! I see : you
well! ” Of course they thought themselves dis
covered ; but as they could gain nothing but
broken limbs and necks, by a precipitate flight,
they wisely concluded to lie down and keep
still in the friendly darkness. Arid it proved
that the soldier’s cry was only a trick played
upon his comrades, who, however, laughed and
passed oii, saying: “No, no, man; you can’t
befool us with such silly false alarms. Your
dirty Scots must be cats Or; foxes, to clamber
up such rocks as those yonder.” But they
found out their own mistake, to their cost, a

half-hour later, when Francis, Randolph, and
their men leaped over the wall, and killed or
took captive the entire English garrison.
Edinburgh is divided into the Old Town and
the New Town, which are so totally unlike as
to seem like two different cities. The Old
Town is that built within the limits of the an
cient walls. For several centuries, citizens did
not think it safe to live without these bounds,
and, as the town grew in wealth and importance,
it became very much crowded in population, and,
being cramped for room, the buildings seemed
to shoot up like trees in a thick forest, to a great
height. They could afford room but for a sin
gle thoroughfare of any width, — High Street,
extending from the Castle to Holyrood Palace,
— the houses being divided by closes, or narrow
alleys, so narrow, damp, and dark, that they
looked like clefts in some bleak mountain’s
sides, in which cold, hideous shadows lurk day
and night, driving back the light and warmth,
■—into which, it would seem, the cheery little
sunbeams dare not drop, for fear of losing them
selves and being forgotten, and not able to an
swer for themselves when the father-sun calls
home his children at nicht.

These queer old monster houses look dismal
enough now-a-days, — gray, and almost tottering
with age, and nearly blind, with their narrow
windows dim with dirt, and half-unglazed ; but
they were more cheerful, as well as grander
edifices, in their time. Each house was built
to accommodate several families, — as many as
there were stories, or flats, which ranged from
five to ten or twelve, — all reached by a com
mon staircase. It was more like a pile of
houses, layer on layer, than a single building.
The first floor was considered the most honor
able ; after passing that, the higher you went in
flats, the lower you sunk in gentility, till,
strange to say, when you reached the attic, you
were set down among the lower classes. Now,
all the rich and titled and learned people have
emigrated to modern houses in New Town, and
there is not such a difference between families
who inhabit those crazy, gigantic houses in Old
Town; they are all dignified and dirty, ragged
and respectable alike. The New Town lies to
the northward of the Old, and is very neatly
and elegantly built, — its handsome edifices look
ing all the more beautiful and comfortable in

contrast with the grand but gloomy old piles
which frown above. — many of them packed full
of poverty and wretchedness.
Our first visit was to the Castle, from whose
walls we should have enjoyed a wide, magnificent
view, had it not been for that provoking mist.
In the old palace of Queen Mary, a part of the
Castle, we were shown the room in which King
James the Sixth was born. It is very small, —
scarcely more than a closet, and is only lighted
by one little window, which opens directly on the
dizzy, jagged precipice. This was a dismal asy
lum for the. poor young queen in her sorrow,
and a dark, prison-like place for the royal babe to
open his eyes upon for the first time ; yet I doubt
if he minded it.
In another apartment is kept the Scottish re
galia, which consists of a crown, a sceptre, a
sword of state, and a treasurer’s mace. These
are splendid mementos of dead royalty. The
crown sparkles and glows with many precious
stones. It is not known how old this is, so we
cannot tell how many royal brows have ached
under it. Those costly stones really seem alive,
— they twinkle and quiver so, — and yet they

are cold, hard, unfeeling things, living on and on,
and gayly sparkling, while their great and lovely
wearers decay and die. Mary Stuart once wore
that crown, and in her rich royal robes, with
courtiers kneeling at her feet, and music swelling
around her, and those brilliant gems making a
glory about her head, she must have seemed more
like a goddess than a mortal woman. Now, it
is very sad to look on the red glow of those
rubies, and on the keen flash of those diamonds,
and think how soon the rose of life faded from
her fair cheek, and the light went out in her
beautiful eyes.
Prom the Castle, we walked down High Street,
through the Canongate, — once the Court end of
the town, but now one of its most dismal and
dilapidated quarters, —to the Palace of Holyrood.
On our way we stopped to see the old house of
John Knox, Queen Mary’s stern reprover. It is
a quaint, brown edifice, moss-grown and mouldy.
As you approach it, you see before you the rough
old Reformer himself, in the act of preaching the
very longest of his long sermons, —that : is, a
stone effigy of him, which seems to be haranguing
the passers-by. \

We also passed Moray House, the ancient town
mansion of the earls of that name, and the Scot
tish head-quarters of Cromwell; and Queens-
bury House, in old times the residence of the
dukes of Queensbury, but in these days actually
an almshouse. I wonder if the paupers are any
happier for being in such an aristocratic asylum,
and I wonder if they ever play at gentility among
themselves, and make believe they are dukes and
duchesses ?
Holyrood Palace was added to an Abbey by
that name, founded by David the First. It was
nearly all destroyed by Cromwell, but was rebuilt
in the old style, by Charles the Second. Fortu
nately the portion of the palace spared was the
northwestern angle, which contained the apart
ments of Queen Mary. We ascended to these by
a stone staircase, very unlike the grand marble
stairways of modern palaces, and came first to a
vestibule, where the guide showed us some spots
upon the floor, which he said in a solemn whis
per were poor Rizzio’s blood. We did not dis
pute him, but I am afraid we did not look quite as
awestruck as he expected, for in that dark place
it was extremely difficult to make out any spots

at all in the floor, though some folks have seen
them very plainly, and of quite a lively red, — so
they say.
Next we were shown the queen’s presence
chamber, — a large, handsome apartment, out of
which opens the queen’s bedchamber, which is
yet very much as Mary Stuart left it, except that
the paintings are faded and the hangings decayed.
It gives one a strange feeling to look upon the
very bed on which she slept, and the silk coun
terpane that covered her, so many, many years
ago. That old counterpane,—how often it must
have been heaved up by the proud and indignant
beatings of her passionate heart, or shaken by
wild sobs, in lonely nights, when her sorrows
came upon her! Then there was an ancient mir
ror which she had used, and 0, how I longed to
have it show me, but for one instant, the beauti
ful face it had reflected a thousand times! This
is a pleasant chamber, and though by no means
very splendid, it is, to all readers of Scottish his
tory, one of the most interesting apartments in
the world. Opening out of it is the small cabi
net, in which the queen, one or two of her ladies,
and David Rizzio, once sat at supper, — the last

supper of the poor Italian, when Darnley and the
other assassins burst in upon them. The private
staircase by which they ascended from the apart
ments of the king-consort was shown to us, — a
dark, ugly passage, — just such a one as you
would expect murderers to make use of, in steal
ing on their prey.
We afterwards walked through the picture gal
lery, where we were shown more than a hundred
portraits of Scottish monarchs, which nobody be
lieves in. It is said they were painted but a few
years ago, for country visitors to gape at, and
that a burly palace porter sat for many of them.
I think it likely, for the daubs are quite fresh,
and there is a strong family likeness running
through them.
We visited also the beautiful ruins of the
chapel in which Mary Stuart was married to
Darnley, and where he was buried, after having
been blown up by his enemies.
Back of Holyrood Palace lie the open grounds
called “ the queen’s park,” — the queen’s pas
tures, would be a truer name, as they are nearly
destitute of trees. These include the height
called Arthur’s Seat, and Salisbury Crags, —

which we did not visit, but advise you to, if you
ever get a chance. We did ascend Calton Hill,
however, — a noble eminence in the town, beau
tifully laid out with walks, and crowned with a
monument to Lord Nelson, — a great idol, a sort
of sea-god of the British nation, who, with the
Duke of Wellington, is sculptured and painted,
and pillared and' carved, and busted and monu-
mented, all over the three kingdoms. Near this
shaft is what is called “ The National Monu
ment,” — the beginning of a splendid temple in
honor of the Scotsmen killed in the last war with
France, — thirteen white marble pillars, which
cost a thousand pounds apiece. The people’s
patriotism or purses gave out, and the temple
will probably never be finished, but it will make
a fine little ruin for travellers to admire, and
learned men to dispute about a thousand years
There is also on this hill a tasteful monument
to the poet-ploughman, Robert Burns, whom the
Scottish people do well to honor. But the chief
pride and beauty of Edinburgh New Town, is
the monument to Sir Walter Scott, a gothio
tower, noble and imposing, yet very graceful and

beautiful, like his great and wonderful genius,
the glory of his native land, and the delight of
the world.
I have not space here to touch upon half of the
interesting sights and peculiarities of Edinburgh,
nor to tell you how charmed I was (in spite of
the weather) with that quaint, romantic, and
most singular place ; but, in other chapters, I will
tell you somewhat more. Though this dear old
town does not contain such splendid cathedrals
and palaces as many foreign cities can boast, I
am happy to say that it has a great number of
noble institutions, — palaces of learning, and hos
pitals for the sick and unfortunate, asylums for
the old and destitute, — God’s houses, if he has
any on earth.
I do not mean to give you the history of any
king, queen, or great personage whatever in this
chapter, —I am merely going to amuse you with
a simple, true little story, which I have laughed
over more than once. I shall tell it in my own
way, and if any of you think, from the title, it
will be more foolish than profitable, why, just
skip it.

In the good old days, wlien the Scottish people
had a parliament of their own, and the Scottish
nobility and gentry had not thought of forsaking
Old Town, in one of those immense High Street
houses which seemed to contain a little world in
themselves, there lived an advocate by the name
of Ramsay.
Now, the Ramsays were of very good family
indeed, —they occupied the second flat, and
looked down with some contempt, I fear, upon
the occupants of the stories above them, when
ever they met them on the wide common stair
way, which went up and up, and dwindled off
and off, like Jack’s beanstalk, till it ended, not in
a wicked giant’s palace, but at the door of the
topmost attic room, where lived a funny little
dwarf, who made toys for good children. On the
first flat lived Lord Glenalbin, a celebrated judge,
to whom the advocate and his family looked up
with great reverence, especially when they met
him on the stairs, dressed in his flowing black
robes and big white wig, on his way to court.

Then there was something grand, almost awful, m
his appearance, — in his solemn way of taking
snuff, in his stern gait, every footstep falling as
though it decided the fate of some poor criminal.
The Ramsays had two daughters, Phemie and
Margery, — both very pretty, but very unlike.
Phemie was a wild, mischievous girl, who dearly
loved a frolic, and would not deny herself a joke,
or a bit of sport, even if it must be at the expense;
of her best friend, or of a harmless, defenceless
dumb creature. I never heartily like such chil
dren, though they sometimes amuse me. They
don’t wear well at home, —they are too like
India sweetmeats, too spicy for every-day use.
Very different was her younger sister, Margery,
— a sweet, gentle, tender-hearted little girl, who
loved fun well enough, but loved love better.
Margery was her father’s darling, but her mother,
who was a tall, red-haired, mettlesome woman,
liked Phemie best, for she said: “ She is a lassie
o’ spirit, and no sic a saft, timorous, wee thing
(not such a soft, timid, little thing) as the bairnie,
Margery,—-the Lord care for her, for she is one
of his ain puir bleeting lammies!” (one of his
own bleating lambkins).

Margery was very fond of pets. She had caged
birds within doors, who sung their very sweetest
for her, and tame pigeons without, who came
daily to feed from her hands at the window;
and, finally, her good father brought her home
the dearest pet of all, — a pretty, gentle, playful
These were friends and playfellows for Mar
gery, but Phemie only took delight in teasing
them, and they in return feared and disliked her.
The birds ruffled up their feathers and scolded at
her from their cages, and even the meek young
kitten, at sight of her, allowed an unbecoming
anger to bristle in her whiskers, hump up her
back, and swell out her taper little tail.
But we must return to Lord G-lenalbin. It
happened that the close which divided this house
from its neighbor was very narrow, — not over six
feet wide, and that across the way lived another
lordship, a friend to the judge. On fine morn
ings, before going to Court or Parliament, these
two noblemen often enjoyed what the Scotch call
“ a crack,” that is, a chat, together, each leaning
out of his chamber window.
One morning, when they were very earnestly

engaged discussing some great political matter,
the little girls, Phemia and Margery, were look
ing down upon them from the window above.
Suddenly, Phemie ran away, but came back soon,
laughing roguishly, and bringing Margery’s kit
ten with a long silk cord tied about its middle,
and in spite of the tearful entreaties of the little
girl, who dared not openly resist any whim of her
giddy and headstrong sister, she swung the poor
scared creature over the window-seat, and let her
down, down, and dropped her right on to his lord
ship’s big white wig! Then, a little frightened
at her trick, she began to pull in; but pussy,
frantic with fright, fixed her sharp claws into the
wig, and hung on desperately, so when she rose,
the wig rose with her. Just imagine his lord
ship’s surprise and horror, on feeling his wig lifted
from his head, and seeing it go whirling up into
the air, as though carried by invisible hobgoblins,
— for at first he could not see the kitten and cord.
But his friend over the way had seen the whole
affair, and laughed uproariously at his ridiculous
plight, — which did not help him take it good-
humoredly. But his lordship was not, after all,
very stern and haughty, though he felt it his duty,

as a judge and a, nobleman, to appear so, — and
though justly shocked and indignant at the saucy
trick that had been played upon him, when Mrs.
Ramsay herself came hurrying down, all a-trem-
ble with terror, and made a humble apology for
her giddy-brained little girl, lie was good enough
to unbend and cool down, and to say, as he re
adjusted the wig on his noble head: “ Weel, weel,
my guid woman, dinna fash yoursel’, — there ’s
na muckle harm done, — bairns will be bairns.”
(Well, well, my good woman, — don’t trouble
yourself, — there ’s not much harm done, — chil
dren will be children.)
When Mrs. Ramsay came back from this inter
view she rated her wild daughter soundly.
“ What will you be aboot neixt ? — ye ne’er do
weel! Can ye no turn your hand to something
mair (more) respectable than dangling cats oot o’
the window to catch honest men’s wigs ! — and
will naething (nothing) content ye, but a judge's
wig, a laird’s wig, ye saucy hizzie ! As for the
wee bit baudrons (the little cat), I ’11 tell ould
Davie to gie her a toss into the loch, wi’ a stane
aboot her neck.” (I ’11 tell old David to give her
a toss into the lake, with a stone about her neck.)

Poor Margery was filled with grief and horror
at these words. She did not try to plead with
her angry mother, but, folding her kitten close
in her pinafore, she stole out of the room, ran
down to the first floor, and asked the porter if
she might see Lord Grlenalbin. He was gone to
the Parliament House. Would you believe it,
this timid little girl, brave now for her dear pet’s
sake, followed the judge even to that awful place !
The Court was not yet opened ; and, without
much difficulty, Margery found his Lordship, in
the midst of a group of members of Parliament
and advocates, amusing them with an account
of his being so strangely unwigged that morn
You see, he thought he would tell the story
first, and laugh with the others, for he knew his
friend would not keep such a good joke to him
self. Little Margery crept up to his Lordship,
and pulling at his long black robe, raising her
soft, sad, appealing eyes to his face, and lifting
up her kitten, who had just then given a piteous
mew, she said: “ Please, my laird, forgive my
wee kitten, for lifting your lairdship’s wig off
your lairdship’s head! She did na ken (did

not know) whose wig it was. Mither is sae
sair fashed aboot it (is so troubled about it)
that she says auld Davie shall drown my pet.
,Oh ! will you no forgive the puir beastie, for I
canna see her gang awa to dee! — it gars me
greet to think o’ it ” (I cannot see her go away
to die!—it makes me cry to think of it). And
the poor child burst into tears.
“ Hush, hush, my bonnie bairnie,” said Lord'
Glenalbin, “ they shall na kill your pet. Here, ’
I ’11 write her pardon; tak’ it to your mither,
and, I ’11 answer for it, she will na harm a single
hair o’ the wee baudron’s head. But mind,
lassie, ye must na do it again, — you are ower
young (too young) to angle for big wigs.”
Margery did not tell him that she : was not
the saucy angler, — she thought that would not
be generous to her sister; she took the paper,
humbly thanked his Lordship, and ran home.
When Mrs. Bamsay read the lines her little
daughter brought from Lord Glenalbin, she not
only forgave pussy, but took her into great favor,
though she never could abide cats before. She
continued to befriend her, and nursed her in
her old age,;—for she considered that cat as

having been the making of her family, by bring
ing them into some connection with the nobility.
And so she had, for Lord Glenalbin took a great
fancy to his little petitioner, Margery, which
lasted all his life; and I have either heard, or
dreamed, that his noble young son, who inherited
his title and estates, inherited this fancy also,
and that Margery finally became Lady Glen
albin, and made one of the prettiest Ladyships
in all Scotland.


THE principal religious edi
fice of Edinburgh is the Ca
thedral of St. Giles, founded
some time in the fourteenth
century, and named after the patron saint of
this town; for it is a Catholic belief that saints
not only act as guardians and mediators for in
dividuals, but often take whole cities and coun
tries under their protection.
St. Giles’s Cathedral, or the High Church, as
7 j

it is now called, is not a very beautiful building,
but it has a venerable look, and bas many inter
esting historical associations. It was here that
James the Sixth took leave of his Scottish sub-'
jects, as he was about to proceed to England, to
succeed Elizabeth; and it is recorded that the
people actually “ luept ” at losing him. But in
St. Giles’s Cathedral occurred a yet more impor
tant event than this royal farewell. Here, on the
13th of October, 1'643, was sworn to and sub
scribed by the Committee of Estates in Parlia
ment, the Commission of the Church, and the
English Commission, the Solemn League and Cov
enant between the English Puritans and the Scot
tish Presbyterians. Another league, called the
National Covenant, had six years before been
adopted by the Scottish people alone, as a defence
against the encroachments of Prelacy, or Episco
pacy. Now, in this chapter, and the one which
will follow, I shall try to give you a clear, though
brief account of these Covenants and the Cove
nanters, as no one can have a good idea of the
history of Scotland without fully understanding
the religious questions about which the people and
their rulers differed so long and bitterly. You

mil not find this account amusing, but I hope I
know you too well, dear children, to fear that you
will turn away dissatisfied from the serious rec
ords of history, or the plain words of instruction.
The reformation in Scotland was much more
thorough and hearty than in England. Some of
the reformers were too stern, hard, and unchari
table ; but they had a stern, hard work to do, and
so much persecution to endure, that it is little
wonder they could not keep themselves in a very
amiable frame of mind. Most of them were hon
est and earnest men, who had the good of their
country and the glory of God at heart. The
forms and titles of the English Church were not
very different from those of the Church of Rome,
though the king was declared its head, instead of
the Pope. But the Kirk of Scotland was as oppo
site as possible to the Church of Rome, in its
forms and government. The Presbyterian system
was simple and strictly republican. The affairs
of the kirk were administered by representatives,
meeting in assemblies, and elected by votes, and
no great head of the Church was acknowledged,
except Christ himself. The Scottish people went
out in a great body from the Church of Rome,

because tlieir consciences condemned its corrup
tions, and their proud spirits rebelled against its
tyranny. The English people were mostly driven
out, by their hot-headed king, Henry the Eighth,
who had taken a spite against the Pope ; and for
many years they secretly longed to get backhand
clung for dear life to as many of the Romish
forms and ceremonies as their Pope-ldngs would
allow them. So it could hardly be expected that
there would be much sympathy between the Eng
lish and Scotch Protestants, though there was
really very little difference between the doctrines
they professed. King James the Sixth, who was
never more than half a man, showed no affection
or gratitude toward the Protestant clergy, through
whose power he had been placed on his poor
mother’s throne. The stern old Presbyterian
preachers were little to his taste. : They refused
to flatter him, but bolted out their disagreeable
truths, and thundered forth their rough reproofs
and admonitions to his face. On one occasion,
when an uncommonly free-spoken divine was
preaching before him, the storm of pious rebuke
came so hot and heavy that the king, jumping to
his feet, called out, angrily: “ Speak sense, inon,
or come down fra the pulpit! ”

The minister grew very red in the face, but
answered, with becoming spirit: “I tell thee,
mon, I will neither speak sense nor come down
fra the pulpit.” .
When, in 1008, James was called to the Eng
lish throne, he determined to unite the religions
as well as the governments of the two nations;
and disliking Presbyterianism, he resolved that it
should be made to yield to Episcopacy, and that
Scotland should “conform” to England. His
first tyrannical act was to punish by banishment,
and in other ways, six clergymen, for holding a
general assembly without his leave. He next
caused measures to be passed by the Parliament
at Perth, restoring the order of Bishops, which
the Kirk had abolished. Then, by threats and
bribery,, he effected , the passage of laws intro
ducing the rites and ceremonies of the English
Service into the Scottish Church. The day when
Parliament ratified these new laws, called the
Five Articles of Perth, was long after spoken of
as “ the black Saturday.” Alas ! Scotland had
many such black days! The larger part of the
clergy and laity refused to accept the new forms
of worship, and were cruelly punished for non

In 1625 James tlie Sixth died, and was suc
ceeded by his son, Charles the First, who, you
will recollect, was put to death by Cromwell
and his party, in 1649. He had some amiable,
manly qualities, — he was a good husband and
father, which is more than could be said of many
of the Stuart family,—but he was not a good
king, and he has been pitied more than lie
deserved, I think, — chiefly because he was an
elegant, accomplished prince, — dignified, melan
choly, handsome, and wore his hair in long,
glossy curls over his shoulders. It is very hard
to lose one’s head, even if it has never been
anointed and worn a crown; but Charles put
his to no good use, and by his foolish acts seemed
bent upon getting rid of it. He was rash, obsti
nate, unreliable, and despotic. One of his most
foolish and fatal undertakings was to carry out
his father’s plan of making the Scots conform to
Episcopacy. He ordered his English bishops to
prepare a Liturgy, or Book of Common Prayer,
for the Scottish Church, and sent, down his most
royal commands that it should be universally
adopted by the clergy and people.
Sunday, July 23d, 1687, was the day appointed

for tlio introduction of the new service-book into
the churches of Edinburgh. A multitude of peo
ple, including all the great lords and magistrates
of the city, assembled at the High Church of St.
Giles. The Dean of Edinburgh was to officiate,
and at the time set for the service, he came out
of the vestry, dressed in his surplice, and trying
to look solemn and priest-like, but evidently feel
ing not a little nervous and awkward. He passed
to the reading-desk, and began reading the ser
vice, in a loud, but rather unsteady voice, while
the people looked on silently, — some curious and
wondering, as though at a show, but the greater
part sullen and indignant. Among those who
showed most horror and anger was an old woman
by the name of Jenny Geddes. She was not
learned, nor great, — she was only the keeper of
a green-grocer’s stall in High Street,—but she
was a dame of spirit, and a stanch Presbyterian,
who hated Episcopacy next to Romanism, and
Romanism next to the Evil One himself. This
morning she sat on a little stool, near the desk,
— but sat very uneasily from the first, — boiling
over with indignation. When the Dean came
out in his robes, she tossed her nose in the air

with disgust, and muttered something about “ Po*
pish rags.” Then she drummed impatiently with
her foot, fidgeted, and frowned, and took snuff,
and glowered at him with her twinkling black
eyes. At length, when he came to announce the
“ Collect ” for the day, it seemed she could con
tain herself no longer, but springing to her feet,
she caught up her stool and flung it at the poor
Dean’s head, calling out at the top of her shrill
voice : “ Deil colick the wame o’ thee, thou
fause thief! dost thou say the mass at my lug ? ”
winch, translated into plain English, means, I am
sorry to say, something very like this: “ The Evil
One give thee the colic, thou false thief! dost
thou dare to say the mass in my ears ? ” A very
unkind and impolite wish, certainly; but those
were rude times you know, and Dame Janet was
very much excited. The throwing of her stool
was the signal for a general uproar. All the
women of the congregation rushed towards the
desk, threatening to tear the surplice from the
Dean’s shoulders ; but he very prudently slipped
it off, and while they were ripping and rending it
to pieces, made his escape, and ran like a fright
ened hare till he reached his covert, the Deanery.

Then the Bishop of Edinburgh mounted the
pulpit to call the people to order; but he soon
dismounted, for he was not only saluted by cries
of “ a Pope! a Pope! ” and other hard names,
but by a regular storm of stools, and even stones!
for the men, grown as courageous and excited
as the women, were all up in arms, and chose
rather to fight than to pray in the new way.
This riot was the beginning of a stout and uni
versal resistance to the introduction of the service-
book. The king was as obstinate as his subjects,
and sent commands to the magistrates to punish
the rioters severely, and enforce the reading of
the Liturgy. Then the people banded together,
and drew up and signed the great National Cove
nant, by which they bound themselves to oppose
Episcopacy and defend Presbyterianism with their
lives. Hundreds of thousands eagerly signed this
covenant, though they knew it might expose them
to persecution, and even to martyrdom. Some
signed it with one hand raised to heaven and
tears streaming down their cheeks, — and some
drew blood from their arms and dipped their pens
in it, to make their oaths more solemn. Such a
people as this were a match for any tyrant, as

King Charles found to his cost. After declar
ing war against his rebellious Scottish subjects,
and fighting several battles with the Covenant
ers, he was obliged to abandon his purpose, and
make to them some important concessions. It
was to a Scottish army that he finally surren
dered himself, and, I regret to say, it was a
Scottish army that sold him to the English Par
When Charles the First was put to death, the
Parliament of Scotland resolved to support his
son, Charles the Second, provided he would sign
the Covenant. This he did, though he hated
Presbyterianism even more than his father and
grandfather had done. He said it was not “the
religion for a gentleman,” — a singular objec
tion for a prince to make, who, it seemed, did
not think any folly or vice ungentlemanly.
Charles signed the Covenant for nothing; his
Scottish army was not strong enough to contend,
with the English forces, and he was obliged to
retire to the Continent, and there remain till
after the death of the great Protector, Crom
well. That old lion out of the way, he came
back to England, and ascended the throne; and

the people rejoiced as though this had been a
happy event, and not, what it proved, a heavy
One of the most marked men of the time of
which I have written was the Marquis of Mon
trose, of whose eventful history I will give you
a brief sketch. ;
In the more prosperous part of the reign of
the first Charles, there appeared at his court a
young nobleman, who ; eclipsed all the courtiers
in graceful accomplishments, all tlie wits in ge
nius, all the scholars; in learning, and the king
himself in beauty and dignity. : This was the
Marquis of Montrose, a brave soldier, and, what
is = better, a noble poet. He not ; only wrote
poetry himself, but lias been the innocent cause
of a great deal of poetry in others, for there
was much that was splendid in his character
and romantic in his career. He had a rash,
fiery spirit; he was too ambitious, and some
times too unscrupulous and unforgiving ; but

lie wap never mean or cruel, and never sought
to advance himself by false, underhanded means.
The young Marquis was not favored or distin
guished by King Charles as he felt that he de
served to be, and, in his proud resentment,
retired to Scotland and declared for the Cove
nant. It was a great pity that he was not act
uated by principle, instead of pique, in taking
this step. However, the Covenanters received
him with open arms, and the king soon had
cause to repent having turned the cold shoul
der to him. The Lords of the Covenant em
ployed him in several important undertakings.
At the battle of Newburn, he performed a very
gallant exploit. He forded the Tyne alone, under
a hot fire of the English, to ascertain the depth
of the water, before leading over his regiment.
But, for all his brave deeds and valuable ser
vices, the Lords of the Covenant were envious
or stupid enough to slight him, and advance
above him the Duke of Argyle, a cunning, crafty
man, who pretended great devotion to his coun
try, but in his close, dark heart was selfish,
scheming, and revengeful.
The families of Argyle and Montrose had been

at enmity for centuries. The present Duke was
the personal foe of the Marquis ; so Montrose was
doubly angered and mortified at his being pre •
ferred to him. He grew sullen and dissatisfied.
He had never really liked Presbyterianism: it
was too strict and solemn for him, a gay young
nobleman, who loved pomp and pleasure, and
magnificent dress ; and now he felt only contempt
and aversion for both Covenant and Covenanters.
In this state of mind, the king had little trouble
in winning him over to the royal cause, to which
he ever after remained faithful. He became the
leader of the Scottish cavaliers, the most popular,
gallant, and splendid of them all. He suffered
some severe defeats at first; but he kept up his
great heart and persevered, till finally the praise
and the fear of him filled the kingdom. He took
town after town, and won battle after battle.
The king sent him a commission, naming him
Captain-General and Lieutenant-Governor of
Scotland; then, just as he was flushed with the
generous hope of being able to march into Eng
land and put down all King Charles’s enemies
there, his reverses came upon him. He lost the
battle of Philiphaugh, upon the borders, and was

obliged to retreat to tlie Highlands, when so
many of his followers basely deserted him that
the king commanded him to save himself by leav
ing the kingdom. He reluctantly obeyed, and in
disguise escaped to Norway. He remained abroad
until after the beheading of the king, when he
transferred his allegiance to ' Charles the Second,
and, with a small army of Germans and Scotch
exiles, landed in Scotland, to strike for the rights
of the prince. It was a rash enterprise, and
speedily failed. In their first engagement with
their powerful enemies, the royalists were de
feated, and Montrose himself was obliged to as
sume a mean disguise to make his escape. He
wandered about till he was exhausted by hunger
and fatigue, when he allowed himself to be taken
prisoner by a Scotch laird, one MacLeod, — feel
ing sure, in his noble, unsuspecting heart, of pro
tection, as MacLeod had once been a follower of
his. If any of that man’s blood ran in my veins,
I should blush to own the truth, that he deliv
ered up his old friend and chief for a miserable
The Covenanter leaders were mean enough to
treat their unfortunate captive with cruelty and

insult. They took him from town to town, ex
hibiting him in his humble disguise, — mocking
him and railing at him. The people of the town
of Dundee alone, though they had once suffered
severely from the excesses of his troops, showed
themselves forgiving and magnanimous. They
supplied him with money and clothing suited to
his rank, and refused to treat him like a common
Before Montrose reached Edinburgh, he had
been condemned to death, as a traitor, by the
Parliament, without a trial. He was sentenced
to be hanged by the common hangman, on a gib
bet thirty feet high, —his head to be placed on
the Tolbootli (the prison), his body to be quar
tered, and placed on the gates of the principal
towns of Scotland. By the order of that same
vindictive Parliament, lie was met at the gates by
the hangman, dressed for the time in the Mon
trose livery, and conducted to jail on a cart, bound
and bareheaded. It was expected that he would
be overcome by this humiliation and the insults
of the; populace; but he bore himself so grandly,
and looked about him with such noble dignity
and calmness, that the rude rabble, instead of

jeering, were awed into silence or moved to tears.
When he appeared before Parliament to hear his
sentence, he conducted himself in the same calm,
heroic way, and defended himself with great elo
In reply to the Chancellor’s charge of breaking
the Covenants, he said he had indeed taken the
National Covenant, and stood by it, until it was
used more in assailing the royal rights of the
king than in defending the religious rights of
the people; but as for The Solemn League and
Covenant, he had never signed it, and was not
bound by it.
When his hard sentence was read to him, lie
did not flinch, but remarked that he would be
more honored by having his head placed on the
Tolbooth than his portrait in the king’s bed-cham
ber ; and as for his body being quartered, lie
wished he had flesh enough to send some to every
city of Europe, to testify of the cause for which
he died.
That night he wrote a poem, expressing these
same heroic sentiments. 0, the pity of it, that
the king and the king’s father were so utterly
undeserving of the devoted loyalty, the noble

blood, of such a man as Montrose! /hit never a
Stuart of them all was worthy of such a sacrifice.
The Presbyterian clergy labored with the Mar
quis to obtain from him a confession of political
crimes. He meekly acknowledged that, as a man,
he had many sins to repent of; but he declared
that towards his country and his king he had “ a
conscience void of offence.”
One Johnstone, a famous Covenanter preacher,
intruded upon him as he was dressing, the day
before his execution. Seeing the prisoner comb
ing and curling his long, beautiful hair, Johnstone
gruffly remarked that he might be more profitably
engaged at so solemn a time.
“May it please you,” replied the Marquis,
with a haughty smile, “ I will arrange my head as
I fancy, to-day, for it is still my own; to-morrow
it will be yours, and you can do with it as you
Montrose walked from the prison to the place
of execution in the Grassmarket, where the terri
ble gibbet stood black and high. Here the Pres
byterian preachers came about him again, like a
flock of ravens, prophesying misery and wrath, if
he died without acknowledging his guilt. He

answered them gently, but turned from them to
the hangman, as though lie had been a friend.
As a last insult, a book containing a history of his
life was hung about his neck by the executioner;
but again Montrose defeated the spite of his ene
mies, by saying that he felt as much honored by
such a record of brave deeds and loyal services
as he had been by the badge of the Order of the
Garter, which the king had bestowed upon him.
At last he submitted himself to the hangman so
calmly, and died so courageously, that a great
shudder ran through the crowd, and sobs and
groans arose on the air; and when some of his
bitter enemies looked up and saw his noble form
slowly swinging above them, they felt that it
would always be between them and heaven, and
must bar them away from God forever.
This sad execution happened on the 21st of
May, 1650. Some writers say that Argyle exult
ed over the death of his rival, and others, that he
was shocked by it, : even to tears. Now,' though I
do not admire the character of the duke, I prefer
to believe that the latter account is the true one.


THE Presbyteri
ans of Scotland had
very little confidence
in Charles the Sec
ond, though he had
3-ned the Covenants with the utmost solemnity.
I they sent one of their number to London to
â– tend the meetings held there to arrange for
ie recall of the king, to stand up for the in-
wests of Presbyterianism. This was a

Janies Sharp, a minister in the Presbytery of St.
Andrews, who in the end proved too sharp for
his employers altogether, — for when he reached
London, and found which way the wind blew at
court (decidedly in favor of Episcopacy), lie
made a secret agreement with Charles to do all
in his power to forward the royal plans, pro
vided he could receive the Archbishopric of St.
Andrews and the Primacy of Scotland.
Two other traitors to the Covenant, and tools
of the king, were the Earls of Middleton and
Lauderdale, — one the Royal Commissioner in
Parliament, the other the Secretary of State,
and both hard, coarse, unprincipled men. One
of their boldest proceedings was to call a par
liament and pass acts doing away with all the
laws passed during the preceding twenty-two
years, declaring the Covenants illegal, and pro
hibiting their renewal. These tyrannical enact
ments were not passed without threats and
bribery, and only, it is said, after “ a drunken
bout,” — a shameful way of legislating, which
unfortunately has not quite gone out of fashion.
We Americans need not go back two hundred
years, into the history of a foreign country, to
know that such things have been.

The people were greatly outraged by these
high-handed proceedings, but did not rise in
revolt till they were driven to it by actual per
secution. Middleton and Lauderdale singled out
several prominent Presbyterians, and brought
them to the scaffold. Among these were the
Marquis of Argyle, a minister by the name of
Guthrie, and a Captain Go van. Guthrie suf
fered for writing a book against the course of
the king, and Govan for having brought the
tidings of Charles the First’s execution to Edin
burgh, and spoken of it as “good news.” I am
sorry to say that there is little, if any, more
liberty to print or speak unpleasant truths, in
several of the kingdoms of Europe, at this day.
The Argyle they executed was the old enemy
of Montrose. His bleeding head now replaced
on the Tolbooth that of the Marquis, whose
almost flesliless skull and limbs were brought
together and buried, with immense pomp, in
the Cathedral of St. Giles. And so matters
went, in those dreadful times, — heads up, and
heads down, like a horrible game of see-saw:
heads on, heads off — but, unhappily, never on

Middleton, Lauderdale, and their crew next
passed an act for ejecting from their parishes
all clergymen who would not conform to Epis
copacy. This, also, was one of “the. drunken
acts ” of the depraved king’s councillors. To
their immortal honor, hundreds of clergymen
refused to conform to a church government
which their consciences could not accept, and
were deprived at once of their means of living,
and, with their families, driven from their homes,
and thrown upon the charities of a poor and
distracted country.
They were succeeded by a miserable set of
curates, — for the most part ignorant and un
principled men, — whose bad hearts despised
the holy Word of God they dared to utter, and
whose dissolute lives were a blasphemy against
Him they professed to serve. It was little won
der that the moral and devout people of Scot
land refused to attend upon religious services
administered by such men. Some were weak
and worldly enough to conform; but by far the
greater part, of the peasantry at least, stood
bravely by the Covenants. They followed their
banished ministers to tbeir retreats among the

hills, and would have none others to instruct
and guide them. Everywhere they held secret
meetings for preaching and prayer, — but espe
cially in the south and west of the kingdom.
They met in private houses, in barns, or in
the open air. These unlawful assemblies were
called Conventicles and Field-meetings. Lauder
dale and company took severe measures to punish
the Non-conformists, and compel them to attend
upon the services of the curates. They passed
another act, commanding all the Covenanter
ministers to remove twenty miles from their par
ishes, and forbidding them, on pain of death,
ever to come within that distance of their old
homes. They posted troops throughout the dis
tricts where there was most of the Covenanter
spirit, to awe and oppress the people, and drive
them to church, as sheep are driven into a pen.
These lawless soldiers committed all sorts of
outrages upon the common people, while their
ferocious leaders took in hand the Presbyterians
of better condition. They robbed and destroyed,
— they fined and imprisoned, — and, too of
ten, shot down their unarmed victims without
legal arrest or trial. But no injustice or cru-

elty could daunt or subdue tlie feailess and
faithful. Covenanters. Meeting after meeting
was violently broken up ; yet still they were
held in the shadowy glens and on the heathery
hills, and more and more numerously attended..
Sir Walter Scott describes one of these, and I
will quote his fine description, to give you an
idea of the singular and impressive scene pre
sented at such gatherings.
“ The meeting in question was held on the
Eildon Hills, in the hollow betwixt two of the
three conical tops which form the crest of the
mountain. Trusty sentinels were placed on ad
vanced posts all around, so as to command a
view of the country below, and give the earliest
notice of the approach of any unfriendly party.
The clergyman occupied an elevated temporary
pulpit, with his back to the wind. There were
few or no gentlemen of property-or quality,—
for such persons could not escape detection, and
ware liable to ruin from the consequences. But
many women of good condition, and holding
the rank of ladies, ventured to attend the for
bidden meeting, and were allowed to sit in front
of the assembly.- Their side-saddles were placed

on the ground, to serve for seats; and tlieir
horses were tethered in the rear of the congre
gation. Before the females, and in the space
between them and the pulpit, the arms of the
men present —- pikes, swords, and muskets —
were regularly piled in such order as is used by
soldiers, so that each man might, in an instant,
assume his own weapons.”
Sometimes those weapons had to be used. A
sentinel would give the alarm, and a troop of dra
goons or a regiment of foot-soldiers would come
dashing down from the hills, or stealing up from
the glens, to attack the worshippers. Then the
Covenanters, with the minister at their head,
would grasp their arms, and fight manfully for
the protection of their wives, mothers, sisters,
and children. Sometimes there were terrible
scenes of cruelty and slaughter, and the rocks of
the mountain or the flowers of the glen were
reddened with the blood of the martyrs.
But, when all went peacefully, how strength-
' ening and comforting it must have been for those
poor persecuted ones to meet thus, — to listen to
a beloved pastor’s voice, and pray and 6ing to
gether. And how grand their solemn psalms

must have sounded, pealing up among the hills,
and echoing from peak to peak! — and how sweet
their hymns, swelling on the fitful breeze, min
gled with the songs of birds and the murmur of
distant waterfalls ! What a sublime place to
worship God in !— mightier and more beautiful
than any temple ever built by men.
Perhaps the good, earnest-hearted Covenanters
often imagined that God’s angels were listening
to their voices, — standing but a little way above
them, — veiled from their sight by the mists of
the mountain-tops. And doubtless they were.
In 1666 the Covenanters had an unsuccessful
revolt, called “ The Pentland Rising.” Many of
those engaged in this were captured, and put to
death, — some with frightful tortures. They all
died nobly.
The chief military leaders of the persecuting
party were Sir James Turner, General Dalziel,
and John Graham of Claverhouse. These three
remorseless men have been execrated and de
spised ever since, — and they deserve all the
blame and shame they have received; yet they
were not so guilty as the statesmen and prelates
who urged them on to such horrible excesses of

At length the persecutors themselves grew wea
ry,— even the king expressed himself “shocked ”
by the accounts from Scotland; so for a while
milder measures were adopted. But the stern
old Covenanters could no more be coaxed than
driven into conformity, — they stood out as
stoutly as ever ; and their persecutors, when they
had taken a little breath, began again, more furi
ous and ferocious than before. They raked up
some barbarous old laws, long out of use, and
brought them to bear against the Covenanters.
The king (the same who had been so shocked)
published what were called “ Letters of Inter-
communing,” by which “his majesty commanded
all his dutiful subjects not to intercommime with
any of the rebels, nor furnish them with meat,
drink, house, or harbor, nor to have any in belli'
gence with any of them by word, writ, or mes
sage, under pain of being considered guilty of
the same crimes as the persons intercommuned.”
By this cruel command more than 17,000 per
sons were made homeless outlaws, reduced to
dreadful privations, and many suffered death.
Another wicked measure of the persecutors was
to invite several thousand wild Highlanders to

ravage and plunder the Lowlands, where the
Covenanters were the strongest. I am sorry to
say that the mountaineers performed their task
mercilessly, — stripping whole provinces of every
thing valuable which could be carried away.
In 1679, the traitor, Archbishop Sharpe, was
assassinated by John Balfour of Burley, who
wrongly imagined he was doing God’s service;
and shortly after Claverhouse was defeated at the
battle of Drumclog. The Covenanters took cour
age, and raised an army of six or seven thousand
men. The king sent against them a greater
force, commanded by the Duke of Monmouth,
and attacked them by Botliwell Bridge, on the
River Clyde. The Covenanters might have been
victorious, if they had been prepared and united
among themselves. But they had been indulging
in violent political and theological discussions for
more than a fortnight, and were so exhausted,
out of temper, and out of heart, that they could
not stand against the enemy. They were de
feated, and left four hundred of their best men
on the field. Bothwell Bridge was piled with the
fallen, so that when Claverhouse charged across
it, his terrible black war-horse went plunging and

leaping over great heaps of the dying and the
dead. 0, it was an awful day!
After this, all the Covenanter survivors of the
battle were hunted out and killed, with especial
ferocity; and when Claverhouse and his men
were balked in their pursuit of one of them, they
seized upon the first Presbyterian they could find,
and put him to death, — so strangely bloodthirsty
were they.
A very touching story I find in the history of
this time, of the murder of one John Brown, a
carrier, a brave and good man, — and of the
Christian heroism of his wife, Marion. These
two were married at a field-meeting, by a Mr.
Peden, a celebrated preacher, who seems to have
had the gift of prophecy ; for, after the ceremony,
he said to Marion, solemnly: “You have got a
good husband, — value him highly. Keep linen
for a winding-sheet beside you; for in a day
when you least expect it he may be taken from
you! ”
Three years after, this minister visited the car
rier at his home, on the Farm of Priesthill, Ayr
shire, and spent the night. The next day, when
he was taking leave of Marion, he looked very

sad, .and said: “ Poor woman, — a fearful morn
ing ! A dark and misty morning! ”
When he was gone, John Brown took his spade
and went out to his work, near the house. There
was a thick mist, and the first the poor man
knew he was surrounded by dragoons, with Cla-
verhouse at their head. They began to question
him sternly, and he answered readily and dis
tinctly, which was strange, as always before he
had been troubled with a painful stammer. Cla-
verhouse then called out to him: “Go to your
prayers now, for the last time, — for you must
die at once.” John Brown knelt down, and
prayed very fervently for himself and all men.
Claverhouse interrupted him, impatiently, several
times, and, when he closed, said: “ Now say
good night to your wife and children.” John
Brown turned to his wife, who stood near, with a
baby in her arms and a little girl at her side, and
said : “ Now, Marion, the day is come that I told
you might come, when I first spake to you of
marrying me.” She looked tenderly in his eyes,
and answered: “ Indeed, John, in this cause I
am willing to part with you.” Then he kissed
her and the babies, and blessed them.

Claverhouse commanded six soldiers to shoot
him. Most of the bullets struck his head, and
killed him instantly.
Marion had never before been able to see blood
without fainting; but she did not faint at this
fearful sight. Her eyes were only a little dazzled
by the flash of the muskets. When all was over,
Claverhouse said to her: “ What thinkest thou
of thy husband now, woman ? ” She replied:
“ I always thought meikle (much) of him, and
now more than ever.”
When the cruel persecutors were gone, she set
her baby down on the ground, tied up her hus
band’s head with her kerchief, straightened his
body, covered him over with her plaid, and then
sat down and wept beside him.
The death of Charles the Second did not help
the cause of the Covenanters much. They suf
fered persecution during the brief reign of his
bigoted brother, James the Second of England.
This king was a Catholic, and bent upon bring
ing both England and Scotland again under the
yoke of the Pope. In the struggle with his rebel
lious subjects he lost his crown, and was forced
to fly from his kingdom, while his daughter Mary

and her husband (William, Prince of Orange),
both Protestants, were called to the throne.
These sovereigns wisely resolved to give full
religious liberty^ to Scotland. In July, 1689,
Prelacy was abolished in that country, and Pres-
byterianism restored. So, after a long, stormy
night of trouble and oppression, the sun of peace
and toleration arose upon poor Scotland.
: The persecutions had lasted nearly a century,
during which time no less than eighteen thousand
people had suffered death, banishment, or long
imprisonment; but the tears of anguish that were
shed, and the hearts that were broken, only God
can number. Let us thank him that such things
can never be, again, in a country calling itself
- In May, 1685, during the reign of James the
Seventh, two women, one named Margaret Mac-
lauglilin, and the other Margaret Wilson, were
arrested for attending a field-meeting, and, re
fusing to conform, were sentenced to death. The

first was an aged woman, weary of a world in
wliich she had seen a great deal of trouble, and
longing to depart and be with Christ. But the
other, Margaret Wilson, was young, — only eigh
teen, and very fair. She had many to love her,
for she loved many, and : to her this earth seemed
very beautiful. Yet she loved God better than
life, — and went bravely, even cheerfully, to death
for his sake.
The form of execution fixed upon for these two
was singular, as well as very cruel. They were
sentenced to be bound to stakes,.driven down into
the sea-beach, when the tide was coming in,—
there to stand until the waters should overwhelm
and drown them.
The morning when the people and the troops
assembled on the searshore to see this sentence
carried into execution was very bright and balmy.
The blackbirds and thrushes, in the dark fir-trees,
sang as gayly as ever, out of their glad, innocent
hearts; and the wild sea-birds, whirling in the
pleasant air, screamed out their shrill delight, —
while God’s beautiful sunlight fell, as his rain
and dew descend, “ on the just, and on the

The two Margarets came down to the beach,
escorted by a troop of rude soldiers, and followed
by a crowd of weeping friends. They both
walked firmly and were very calm, though their
faces were deadly pale, and their lips moved in
prayer. Before they were fastened to the stakes,
they were told that their lives would be spared,
if they would, even then, renounce the Covenant.
But again they firmly refused. Then they took a
last leave of their friends.
Margaret Maclaughlin had children and grand
children present. She kissed them and blessed
them all, very tenderly and solemnly. One little
grandson she took in her aged arms, and pressed
to her bosom. He twined his chubby arms
around her neck and cried, though he did not
know why, only that he saw tears on her dear old
cheeks. When she was led away to the stake,
he struggled in his father’s arms, and cried out :
“ Come back, grandmither! Dinna gang awa’
into the black sea,— come back to Johnny!”
This drew tears from many eyes in the crowd,
and even touched the hard hearts of such of the
soldiers as had children or grandchildren of their

Margaret Wilson had to part with a father and
mother, brothers and sisters. She was the calm
est of them all, though she wept very much, es
pecially when she parted from her mother, who
was a sickly woman, and needed her help. This
poor mother fainted in her husband’s arms when
their beloved daughter was led away by the sol
diers. One of Margaret’s brothers, a little boy,
clung longest to her, sobbing and shrieking with
passionate grief.
“ Hush! hush! Jamie,” said the young mar
tyr ; “ it breaks my heart to hear you; and if you
fill my ears wi’ yer loud greeting (weeping), I
canna hear the whispers o’ the angels wlia come
to strengthen me! ”
Then Jamie grew still, let go her dress, and
turned his face away. But when he saw her
bound to the stake, and the waves rising around
her, his wild grief broke out afresh, and he rushed
into the water, crying: “ I am a Covenanter, too,
— I will go drown wi’ my dear sister Maggie.” He
had to be brought back by force, and the incident
so affected the spectators that many shouted,
“ Rescue the women ! Save them ! save them! ”
The military force was too strong for a res

cue ; but the people had hopes that they might bo
saved, for the magistrate seemed to relent for a
moment, and said that if the women would say,
“ God save the King! ” they might go free.
Then the people shouted to them to yield this
much. “Consider,” they said, “it is your duty
to pray even for the greatest sinner ! ” “ Ay, but
not at the bidding of every profligate,” replied
brave old Margaret Maclaughlin. But as sweet
Margaret Wilson said that she “ wished not that
any should perish, but that all should have ever
lasting life,” they cried out that she had prayed
for the king, and rushing into the water, brought
her out. Then the magistrate, growing hard
again, asked her sternly if she was ready now to
renounce the Covenant. “ No,” she answered,
with gentle firmness, “I have signed the Cove
nant, and I will abide by it for aye, wi’ the help
o’the God o’ the Covenant.” Then the magis
trate grew very angry, and commanded that
“ the obstinate lass ” should be taken back to the
Then the two Margarets spoke cheering words
to one another, and for a while looked towards
the shore, smiling and waving their hands in

loving farewell; but as the tide came in strong
and stronger, they clasped their hands on their
breasts, raised their eyes, and gave themselves up
wholly to prayer.
The foaming waves rose to Margaret Wilson’s
slender waist, — over her gentle, noble heart, —
above her white, praying hands; and they rose
above Margaret Maclaughlin’s strong, faithful
heart, — over her shrivelled, praying hands, trem
bling with cold; then, only two faces were seen,—
one young and fair, the other old and wrinkled,
— but both beaming with saintly glory ; and last,
two heads of long hair — one gray, and the other
golden — floated for a moment on the crest of a
wave, and then sunk out of sight. The golden
hair remained visible a little longer than the
other ; for, to the last, Margaret Wilson kept her
face turned towards Heaven, as though to wel
come the angels coming to receive her soul; but
old Margaret Maclaughlin closed her eyes, and
let her head sink on her breast, as though she
wished to t be carried sleeping- to her Father’s
mansion, in the arms of angels, like a wearied
When all was over, it happened that a little

wave brought to Jamie Wilson’s feet the snood,
or white ribbon, which had confined his sister’s
beautiful hair. He caught it up, kissed it, wept
over it, hid it next his heart, and ever after
treasured it as the relic of a saint.


ting altogether the
subject of the
unhappy religious
strife which so long desolated Scotland, I will
relate two charming stories, from history, which
may show you how nobly heroic gentle-hearted
women, even young girls, may be, in times of
war and persecution.
It happens that both of my heroines were

called Grizel,— not a very pretty name, certainly,
but I think you will grow to liking it, after read
ing of them. I will begin with
A short time before the death of Charles the
Second, there was an enterprise formed by sev
eral eminent English and Scottish lords and gen
tlemen, to prevent the Duke of York, afterwards
James the Second, of England, from ascending
the throne. . Through treachery and rashness
this enterprise failed, and many of those engaged
in it were arrested and put to death. Among the
few leaders who escaped the vengeance of the
government was the good and brave Sir Patrick
Hume, of Polwarth. It happened that the party
of soldiers sent to arrest him stopped for refresh
ment at the house of a nobleman known to be
loyal. Here they inquired the way to Polwarth
Castle, and their hostess, being a friend to Sir
Patrick, resolved to give him warning. She did
not dare to write, nor even to trust one of her ser
vants to carry a plain message to her neighbor;

but, being very ingenious, she took an eagle’s
feather, and wrapping it in a piece of blank pa
per, sent it by a fleet-footed Highland boy across
the hills to Polwarth. She then put wines and
rich meats before her guests, and made them all
feel so extremely comfortable that they lingered
at her house as long as possible.
Sir Patrick understood at once, from the token
she sent, that he was in danger, and must fly or
secrete himself. He resolved upon the latter
course as the least hazardous, and could think of
no safer hiding-place than a vault in, Polwarth
churchyard, where his ancestors were buried.
It was a dismal place enough, — damp, dark, and
cold,-—with dead men and women and children
lying all about in mouldering coffins, covered
with itattered , black palls ; but it was better than
a prison/ cell, chains, and a scaffold.. Scarcely
had he secreted himself before the soldiers ar
rived. They searched for him high and low, far
and wide,— everywhere but in the old vault.
Then they separated and went off in various di
rections, still searching, inquiring, and swearing
at their ill luck. At night, a faithful domestic
carried a bed and some blankets to the church-

yard, flung them down into' the vault, and then
ran home, his heart beating loud, and his teeth
chattering for fear of ghosts and hobgoblins.
But there was one who was not frightened from
her duty by any such wild fancies, so full was her
heart of that “ perfect love which casteth out
fear.” This was Sir Patrick’s daughter, Grizel, a
beautiful young lady, only eighteen, but thought
ful, courageous, and prudent beyond her years.
She was the only one who could be trusted to
carry her father his food, which must always be
taken to him at midnight. Her mother, who was
rather afflicted with cowardice, — “ nervousness ”
she called it, —waited for her return in dreadful
anxiety, and when she came, took her in her
arms, blessed her and rejoiced over her as though
she had risen from the dead. “ But did it no
fright you, lassie, to pass through the kirk-yard
at such an awful time o’ night ? ” she asked.
“ No, no, mother,” said Grizel, smiling; “ I knew
God could take care of me as well at midnight as
at noonday, and I felt that every star above was a
kind angel’s face, watching over me. I feared
nothing, mother, but the minister’s dogs, lest
their barking should rouse the people at the

uanse, and dear father’s hiding-place he discov
The next day Lady Hume sent for the min
ister, and complaining of a fear of mad dogs (I
am afraid she stretched a point there), persuaded
him to shut up his dogs for a time.
Grizel had a good deal of trouble in obtaining
food for her father without the knowledge of the
servants, whom it was thought not best to trust
with her secret. She used to watch her chance
and take pieces of meat and bread from the table,
when the family were at dinner. One day, when
they had sheep’s head,, a good old Scotch dish,
Grizel took a larger portion than usual off the
platter, and hid it in her napkin. Scarcely had
she done so when one of her brothers, a little boy,
and, like other little boys, apt to blunder out the
wrong thing at the wrong time and place, bawled
out indignantly, “ 0 mamma, see Grizzy! while
we were supping the broth, she has eaten up
almost all the sheep’s head.” The poor girl
feared that her secret would be discovered then,
but the servants present only wondered what had
come over Miss Grizel, to be so greedy.
Sir Patrick remained in the funeral vault, with

no light by day but what came through a little
hole at one end, and no amusement but reading
and reciting psalms, for several weeks; then he
ventured to return for a little while to his house,
and from there he made his escape in safety to
Holland, where he remained till after the death
of Charles the Second.
Sir John Cochrane, of Ochiltree, a son of the
Earl of Dundonald, and a most heroic gentleman,
was engaged with Sir Patrick Hume in the con
spiracy against the Duke of York. He also made
his escape to Holland, and, with his friend and
other patriotic refugees, returned to join a re
bellion, headed by the Duke of Argyle, against
James the Second. This, like the other plot, was
unsuccessful. The Duke, as you have seen, suf
fered death; and Sir John Cochrane was arrest
ed, tried, and condemned to die, though great
efforts were made to save him by his father, the
Earl of Dundonald, who had never conspired
against the government. _ â– 

No friend or relative was allowed to see the
prisoner until after his condemnation, when he
was informed by his surly jailer, that, during the
time which must pass before the arrival of the
death-warrant from London, he might see his
family. Sir John, however, not being willing to
bring upon his sons the suspicion of sharing his
treason, sent them his positive commands to re
frain from visiting him until the night before his
execution; but he said his beloved only daughter,
Grizel, a fair girl of eighteen, might visit him at
once, if she would ; and she came. Her beauti
ful, loving face seemed almost to bring the dear
ness and peace of home, the brightness and sweet
ness of liberty into his dreary cell, though it was
pale and worn with sorrow, and overflowed with
tears. Grizel flung herself upon her father’s
breast and sobbed bitterly; but when she felt the
tears of that strong, brave man falling on her
hand, she hushed her sobs, and strove to comfort
She told him her grandfather, the Earl, had
petitioned the king for a pardon, and would make
a strong effort to obtain the favor of his Majesty’s
confessor, the powerful Father Peters. But Sir

John shook his head despondingly, saying that
even if the king could be persuaded to forgive
such a notorious rebel, the pardon would not
probably arrive at Edinburgh till several days
after the death-warrant had come and all was
Every day Grizel visited her father, and talked
with him about these matters, and every night
she spent many waking hours in striving to con
trive some plan for his deliverance. The only
thing to be done, it seemed to her, was to inter
cept or delay the death-warrant, so that the
friends who were working for him in London
could have time to effect their, good purpose.
But how to do this was the question. At last, a
few days before the warrant was expected by the
council in Edinburgh, she fixed upon a bold plan
for getting possession of it. She did not confide
this plan to any, not even to her father. She
only told him very quietly that some important
business would prevent her from visiting him for
a day or two. Yet he was somewhat alarmed,
and replied: “ Don’t, my dear daughter, under
take any plan to save me, for which your age
and sex unfit you.”

“I am a Cochrane, my father,” she replied;
“ do not fear for me.” Still, for all her heroism,
her heart sunk, and her tears fell fast, when
the prison-door closed on that poor father.
What if she had taken her last look of his be
loved face!
The next morning early Grizel assumed a
humble disguise, mounted a favorite palfrey, and
rode out of Edinburgh towards the borders.
She stopped only at country cottages, where
she passed herself off as a housemaid taking a
journey to visit her friends. On the second
day, she reached the house of her old nurse,
who lived just over the Tweed, near the town
of Berwick. To this woman she revealed her
secret, and the good dame promised to aid her
all in her power, though she shook her head
sadly, and said it was an awful undertaking.
And so it was ; for Grizel’s purpose was no
other than to waylay and rob the postman of
the mail! hoping thus to get possession of the
warrant. She had brought with her a brace of
pistols and a horseman’s cloak ; and her nurse
lent her a suit of clothes belonging to her son,
Grizel’s foster-brother, which luckily fitted the
brave girl very well.

In those times, the mail was brought from
London to Edinburgh on horseback, — the bags
containing it being strapped on to the saddle
before the postman, who was always armed.
The journey took full eight days; so Grizel cal
culated that if she could carry out her plan, it
would be at least sixteen or seventeen days be
fore a second death-warrant could be received,
which, she hoped,- would afford her father’s
friends a fair opportunity to obtain his pardon.
She had somehow ascertained that the postman
was in the habit of stopping at a little inn kept
by a widow, near Bedford, on a certain day, to
take a few hours’ rest. He usually reached this
place in the early morning, and Grizel contrived
to arrive a short <ime after he had breakfasted
and laid down to sleep. She put up her horse,
and, going into the house, asked for some refresh
“ "Well, sit down at that table, my bonnie lad,”
replied the landlady, “ and I will serve you; but
please be. as quiet as possible, for there is the
London postman asleep in that bed, and I would
not have him disturbed.”
After making a slight meal, Grizel asked for

some fresli water, offering to pay for it the price
of good beer; and, while the dame was gone to
the well, she rose, and stole on tip-toe to the
bed on which the postman was sleeping. To her
disappointment, he was lying with the mail-bags
under his head and shoulders; and she saw that
she could not take them away without waking
him. By his side, lay his pistols. She had
just time to draw the loading from these, and
put them back into the holsters, before the land
lady returned. Then she paid liberally for her
breakfast, and, having carelessly asked how long
the postman would be likely to sleep, she mount
ed her horse and rode away in a direction oppo
site to the one she came from. She took a cir
cuit, however, and came out on the high road,
when she ambled along slowly until the post
man came up. Then she checked her horse,
and fell into a conversation with him. He was
a large, burly man, but with a good-natured
face, and, Grizel was glad to see, not a very
brave or determined-looking fellow.
Miss Cochrane watched her opportunity, and
when they came to a lonely place, near a wood,
with no house or traveller in sight, she rode

close to her companion, and said, sternly:
“ Friend, I have taken a fancy to those mail
bags, and I must have them, at all hazards. I
am armed, well mounted, and determined So
have my will. So, take my advice, give up tie
mail-bags, and go back the way you came ; and,
if you value your life, don’t come near yonder
wood for at least two hours.”
The stout postman only burst into a hearty fit
of laughter at this. “ 0 ho, my pretty youth! ” he
said, “you.are disposed to make yourself merry
at my expense! Deliver up his Majesty’s mails
to one like you, forsooth! Go, to! you look
more fit to rob birds’ nests and orchards. If I
were churlish enough to take offence at a boy’s
foolish jest, I could teach you a hard lesson,
Master Smooth-face.” As he said this, he saw
something in Grizel’s eye which did not look like
jesting, — so, taking a pistol from the holster
and cocking it, he added : “ But if you are mad
enough to be in earnest, I am ready for you, you
see, — so put spurs to your horse and be off with
you, while you have a whole skin.”
It was a perilous moment for Grizel. She knew
it was possible that the man had discovered her

trick at the inn, and had reloaded his pistols;
but she thought of her father, and did not flinch.
“ I don’t like to shed blood,” she said, “ but I am
also ready; ” and, drawing a pistol and present
ing it, “ that mail I must and will have ! So,
take your choice, — deliver it, or die I ”
“ Well, then, you hair-brained stripling, your
blood be on your own head ! ” cried the postman,
firing his pistol, which only flashed in the pan.
He flung it down, seized the other, fired, — and
again there was only a flash! Then, in a rage, he
leaped to the ground, and tried to seize her horse
by the reins,—but, by the quick use of the spur,
she escaped from his grasp, and, before lie was
aware of her purpose, she. caught his own horse,
and was galloping off with it, mail-bags and all!
She looked back once, to point her pistol at him,
and warn him not to follow her, — then she put
both horses to their utmost speed, till she reached
the wood, — when she left the highway, and rode
into the deepest part of the forest. Here she
tied the postman’s horse to a tree, unstrapped
the mail-bags, cut them open with her penknife,
and took out the Government despatches, which
she knew by their great seals. Among these she

found not only her father’s death-warrant, but
several others, all of ■which she tore into small
pieces and hid in her bosom. She then replaced
the other papers in the mail-bags (where they
were afterwards found), mounted her horse, re
turned to the house of her nurse, burned the
fragments of the warrants, resumed her female
dress, and journeyed back to Edinburgh, all in
perfect safety.
Her heroic act did indeed save the life of her
father. It gave the Earl of Dundonald time to
persuade Father Peters (with the help of five
thousand pounds) to persuade the king that it
would be for the good of his royal soul to pardon
his enemy, Sir John Cochrane, — and he did it.
This is the only instance I remember to have
ever heard of, where robbing the mail was justifi
able. Yet I hardly think it a piece of heroism
which would bear repeating.
I hope that Miss Hume and Miss Cochrane, the
two Grizels, were good friends. They ough! '
have been.

There are many places in the vicinity of Edin
burgh which travellers should visit, not only for
their beauty, but because their names are familiar
to all readers of Scottish history, poetry, romance.
A few miles from the city, on the river Esk, in
the green depths of a lovely dell, stands the
G-othic Chapel of Koslin, built several centuries
ago, by the St. Clairs, Earls of Caithness and
Orkney, and Lords of Roslin,— who dwelt near
by, in a stately castle.
The castle is now but a grand old ruin, — the
proud and warlike lords who once inhabited it
lie beneath the Chapel, each clad in a complete
suit of armor, an iron shroud, — the strong arm,
the bloody hand, the fiery heart, the haughty
voice, still and silent forever; but the Chapel,
the best of all their works, lives after them,—
remains yet beautiful, august, and solemn,—
seeming almost to consecrate their stern memo-
r ie S> — to atone for many sins, to rise over their
poor dust like a perpetual intercession for their

The architecture of the chapel is of different
styles, representing the tastes and art of the dif
ferent ages in which it was built. The orna
mental portions are of wonderful variety and
beauty, — displaying a thousand forms of curious
and graceful sculpture. Among the columns
which support the stately arches, is one so beau
tiful in form and so perfect in finish, that all
tourists pause before it in surprise, and linger
long to admire^ it, — marvelling at the genius
which created such a joy for the eye out of the
dull, rude rock, — which carved such a poem in
stone. This pillar is completely wreathed with
foliage, so delicately modelled, so exquisitely
wrought, that, hard and colorless as it is, you
almost fancy it can stir and rustle, and send out
faint fragrance on the air.
But there is something beside its beauty to
make one remember this pillar. It is a legend,
dark and sorrowful, which clings about it as
closely as its lovely sculptures, and will cling
as long.

The master-builder of Roslin Chapel was a
hard, ambitious man, who thought only of the
fame and fortune his work would win for him, - •
not of the glory of the Holy One to whom the
edifice would be dedicated, or of the sacred joy
which devout souls would have in worshipping
within it. He did not even love the grand arches
and pillars, the figures of saints and angels, and
the sweet little cherub faces he planned and
sculptured, •— save as he counted up how much
gold and renown they would bring him, — so
that it seemed that, while turning stones into
beauty and worship, he had turned his heart into
stone. When erecting the high altar itself, he
wrought more for the honor of his own name
than for that of his heavenly Lord, — and if he
had dared, he would have set up his own scowl
ing effigy in some lofty niche, in place of the
statue of a meek-browed saint or angel, for the
people to bend before in solemn reverence.
This man was Lot only thus arrogant and self
ish, but bitterly jealous of the talent and fame of

other architects, treating them all as though they
were his natural enemies, whose very presence,
even while he made use of their labor, was a
wrong and an offence.
There was among his apprentices one whom
he especially hated, because he could not help
seeing that the youth had great genius for his art,
and was likely to be very famous. This young
sculptor was of a nature gentle, generous, and
devout, and bore himself quietly and meekly
under his hard master’s taunts and reproofs. He
consoled himself for all such little trials, by the
delight he took in his art. He loved to repro
duce, in imperishable marble, the fading forms of
earthly beauty, — flowers, and foliage, and lovely
childish faces, and he loved best of all to labor for
the adornment of noble edifices, dedicated to
Him who inspired worship and created all beauti
ful things. He thought he saw in nature the
types of great cathedrals, — in the solemn arches
of dim forests, in the mighty boles of ancient
oaks, in the rocky towers of mountain-steeps, in
gorgeous sunset clouds — the stained windows of
. It happened that the master-builder found him-

self unable to make a certain pillar, after a plan
which had been brought from Rome, without
going all the way to that city, to examine the
model. The journey was a tedious and perilous
one in those days, yet the ambitious artisan
undertook' it, — saying nothing of his purpose
to any one.
During his absence, the young apprentice came
across the plans which his master had not under
stood, but which were clear to his keen, beauty-
loving eyes, and, thinking no harm, began to
work them out. Every morning, before he com
menced his work, he prayed that good angels
might guide his chisel; every evening he walked
alone in the fields and woods, and reverently
studied the foliage of trees and vines, that he
might be able to copy them exactly, to the curl
of a tendril, or the most delicate veining of a
leaf. Every flower bore for his eyes traces of the
hand of the Divine Artist, — every smallest spray
conveyed a lesson from the great Master-Builder
of the universe.
All alone he toiled, till a magic summer began
to bud and blossom out of the cold, hard stone, —
fair, white forms of flower and foliage, which one

might fancy lovely ghosts of old-world bloom and
verdure, that perished by flood or fire, and wore
embedded or fused in the fluid rock, — came
forth, day by day, and seemed to climb and
wreathe themselves around the graceful pillar.
At last it was finished and raised to its place,
to the sound of a hymn, sung by the pious young
artisan; and while everybody was wondering and
admiring, the master-builder came home, full of
his project for delighting the Lord of Roslin and
all Scotland, by the marvellous pillar he was
about to execute.
It happened that the first of his workmen
whom he met was the young apprentice.
“ Well, sirrah,” said he, scornfully, “ what
have you been about while I have been away?
Anything better than idle dreaming ? ”
“ Yes, my master,” replied the youth, modestly,
“ I have executed a pillar, from some plans I
found in your study; and I hope my work will
please you.”
“ A pillar! Show it to me. I'warrant it must
come down right speedily. A pillar, forsooth!
and after my plans. How dare you meddle with
matters above your condition ? ”

The apprentice did not reply, but quietly led
liis master to the pillar, and stood by,.longing, yet
hardly daring to hope for his approval. For
some moments, the master-builder stood still,
overwhelmed with amazement. Here was that
difficult design which he had travelled so far, and
braved so many dangers to study, wrought out
more admirably than he could have executed it,—
a finer work even than the model at Rome, — and
all this done by a mere apprentice, whom he had
rated and flouted a thousand times! Then he
was seized with a mad fit of jealous rage at hav
ing lost the fame he had taken such pains to
secure, and, catching up a heavy mallet that lay
near, he struck the apprentice to the ground.
It was the poor youth’s death-blow. He lay
quite still, the blood gushing from a ghastly
wound in his broad, white forehead, and darkly
staining the rich golden curls of his hair. But
he revived for a moment, feebly turned his head,
fixed his eyes mournfully, yet fondly, upon his
last beautiful work, and murmured: “ I meant it
for Grod’s glory, master, and your gain ; ” and so
Those were days of lawless violence; and the

legend does not go on to tell that a coroner’s in
quest was held over the body of the poor appren
tice, or that the master-builder was arrested, tried,
and executed for his untimely taking off. Per*
haps the man had friends, rich and respectable,
who hushed up the unpleasant little matter ; per
haps he was wanted to build more churches.
Doubtless he would have liked to remove that
pillar, but dared not, as it was now not only a
beautiful part of the sacred edifice, but a monu
ment to the innocent dead. .
But the place where it stood must ever have
been for him a sad and haunted spot. It is not
likely that lie fancied much passing near it after
dark. If his duties ever compelled him to visit
the chapel at night, though he entered with ever
so bold a brow and defiant a spirit, there entered
with him Remorse, like an avenging angel, and
everything he beheld seemed to speak of his crime.
The beautiful stained windows changed the mild
moonlight into ghastly gleams. The shadows un
der the great arches seemed full of threatening
and horror. The little cherub-faces above the
pillars seemed to put on looks of affright at be
holding him, and Madonna to draw the holy child

nearer to her protecting bosom. The pale saints
in their niches, by the stillness of their eternal
calm, seemed to reprove him for his unholy pas
sions, and the piteous figure of the Lord himself,
by its mute agony on the cross, to reproach him
for his cruelty. Surely, the marble of that memo
rial pillar, gleaming in the dim light, recalled to
him the death whiteness of a face, which neither
coffin-lid, nor earth, nor stone could long shut
away from the eyes of his soul. Though fearing
and hating that stern, inexorable witness of his
sin, he would perhaps linger long to gaze upon it,
awe-struck by its silent, accusing beauty, till the
snowy flowers immortally blossoming around it,
would redden in his sight, and seem to drip with
a dreadful dew, the blood his hand had shed in
that holy place.
Near Roslin, is Hawthornden, one of the love
liest places in all Scotland, once the seat of Drum
mond, a poet of the time of Elizabeth. A little
way down the river is the village of Lasswade, —
so called after a stout lass, who once on a time
used to carry travellers across the ford on her
back. I think she must have been related to

good St. Christopher, or to Strongbaek, the friend
of Prince Fortunatns.
Other beautiful and interesting places in the
vicinity of Edinburgh are Melville Castle, Dal
keith Palace, Newbattle Abbey, Dalhousie House,
and Borthwick Castle ; a fine old fortress, famous
as the place where Queen Mary and the Earl of
Bothwell spent a part of their honeymoon, if so
sweet a name can be given to the unhappy time
they lived together. Mary escaped from this
castle in the disguise of a page, and fled to Dun
bar. Then there is Crichton Castle, on the Tyne,
— which is described in Walter Scott’s poem of
“Marmion— Oxenford Castle, and the ruins of
Cragmillar Castle, once a favorite residence of
Queen Mary.
Charming excursions can be made in every di
rection from Edinburgh; you cannot go amiss.
First in interest are Abbotsford, Dryburgh, and
Melrose; but I will speak of these in another
chapter. At Jedburgh there is an old Abbey,
thought to be the most magnificent ruin in Scot
land ; at Kelso, there is another ruined abbey.
Then there is battered old Norham Castle, and if
you have enough of ruins, there are the lovely

vales of Yarrow and Ettrick and Teviotdale, that
we read so much about in Scottish poetry and
There is a fine old town, about twenty miles
from Edinburgh, called Peebles, which I was sorry
not to see. It is scarcely mentioned in history,
except as a place sometimes visited by the king
and court, because of its pleasant situation in a
good -hunting country, on the road to the royal
forest of Ettrick. It is the scene of a poem by
James the First, and of a touching little tradition
told by Walter Scott and other poets, far better
than I can tell it; however I will do my best.
Many years ago, when Nidpath Castle, near
Peebles, was inhabited by the Earl of March, — a
son of the Duke of Queensbury, — a young lady
of that proud family became very tenderly at
tached to the Laird of Tushielaw in Ettrick For
est ; but when the lover waited on the Earl and
Countess, to ask the hand of Lady Mary in mar
riage, it was refused with anger and scorn. A

daughter of their noble house, they said, must
never descend to wed a simple Scotch Laird. The
Countess, in whose veins there ran real royal blood,
though considerably diluted, was particularly in
censed at such presumption. She grew red and
then white; she frowned and swelled and tossed
her head in high-bred contempt. Even her rich
silk robe seemed to rustle indignantly, and her
lace ruff to bristle up at the young Laird,' while
a bright red jewel which she wore on her fore
head, set in a band of gold, seemed to glare at
him angrily, like a little fiery eye. But Scott of
Tushielaw stood his ground manfully. He said
that, though not a noble, he was a gentleman, and
the son of a gentleman, and held that an alliance
with him would not disgrace the proudest family
in the kingdom. Then he left them, declaring
that he would only take his dismissal from Lady
Mary herself. The angry parents next summoned
their daughter, and sternly accused her of a great
crime, in loving out of the nobility. She pleaded
guilty, and prayed for their consent to marry
young Scott, shocking them very much by saying
that she would rather be happy with his love, than
wretched with a title and a coronet. Of course

they refused, and set themselves, by commands,
reproaches, and harsh treatment, to cause her to
reject her lover. At last they got their Father
Confessor to deal with her. Yery solemnly he
argued, and warned her against the sin of diso
bedience ; for Heaven, he said, was always on the
side of the parents in such cases,-—especially
parents of the nobility. Yet nothing he said
seemed to move her, till he declared that if she
persisted in marrying Tushielaw, she would bring
the curse, of , the Church upon him, and so put his
soul in peril. Then Lady Mary, being young and
superstitious, burst into tears, and sobbed out,
“ 0 Father Ambrose, don’t say any more! I will
give him up!”
So she wrote a sorrowful little letter of fare
well to Scott of Tushielaw, while the priest stood
over her and blessed her. The Countess of March
sent her page in such haste with that letter, that
the tears poor Lady Mary dropped on it were
hardly dry when it reached the young Laird’s
hands. It seemed to pierce his heart like a sharp
dagger; yet he kissed it tenderly, and his own
eyes grew dim over the words which had so
wounded him. He treasured it up and took it

with him abroad, where he went to find what
comfort he could in foreign travel.
From the day of-his going, Lady Mary drooped
and faded, pining for the kind smile and the gen
tle words of the one she loved best of all the
world. She lost her own gay smile, — her tones
grew sad, her step slow, and the sweet red color
went out from her cheeks and lips. Then there
came a cough,—a very little cough, which scarcely
shook the muslin kerchief on her neck, but which
sounded of death as surely as a funeral knell.
Nothing revived or comforted her, —not the com
ing of the spring, with leaves and flowers, — not
balls, nor hunting, — not even the homage of a
great noble, a real Duke, who offered her his cor
onet, his castle, and his heart.
At last she took to her couch, and the little
cough went on, and wasted her day by day, till
even the Earl and Countess saw that Death, and
not the Duke, was coming for their daughter.
They confessed to each other that there was but
one hope for her, — the recall of her lover. It
was a hard remedy for them, — next to death, but
they submitted; for, after all, they loved their
gentle child, in their way, — and they wrote to

the young Laird to come home, saying that they
would now give him the hand of the Lady Mary.
Scott was as proud as they; hut his pride was
of a nobler kind, and he did not refuse to come.
He wrote to Lady Mary a glad, loving letter, and
named the very day on which she might look for
him at Nidpath Castle. When this letter came,
the poor girl strove to rise from her couch and
take into her heart the joy of life and love once
more. But she was like a delicate lily, which,
after its stem was broken, should try to lift its
head towards the sun, and to catch the dew in its
withered cup. It was too late!
On the afternoon of the day when her lover was
to arrive, Lady Mary caused herself to be carried
to a house belonging to her family, in the town of
Peebles, through which the young Laird would
pass on his way to the Castle. She could meet
him so much the sooner, she said.
A softly cushioned chair was placed for her 011
a stone balcony, over the gateway of the mansion,
and here she sat, with her mother and her maids,
looking and listening, till the summer sun was
setting, and the twilight shadows began to creep
over the hills. She seemed to listen with her

heart, for long before the others could distinguish
a sound, she heard the gallop of a steed, coming
nearer and nearer ; and then, far in the distance,
saw and knew the rider, and clasping her hands,
she cried: “ It is he! It is he ! 0 mother, God
is so good to me! ”
It seemed hours, though it was not many min
utes, before the Laird reached the Queensbury
house, and came riding along just beneath the
balcony. Lady Mary now stood without support,
and her glad heart sent a little glow of welcome to
her wan cheeks. The traveller raised his head and
looked full in her face, and she bent forward and
smiled on him tenderly, like a sweet pale star out
of heaven. But alas ! he had no thought of her
being so changed by sorrow and illness. The face
seemed like the shadow of one he had seen, or it
was one he had dreamed of; he could not think
it hers. His heart was so full of memories of the
round, healthful form, and the bright, rosy face
of his Mary, as he had loved her first, that ho did
not know her now. So he only gave her a brief,
cold, strange look, and galloped on. Lady Mary
uttered a wild, mournful cry ; “ 0 mother,”
she said, “ he has forerotten me! forgotten mo! ”

and sunk back into her chair, softly, but white
and cold as marble.
“ Help ! ” cried the Countess of March, “ she
has fainted.”
That wild, sad cry had reached the ear of her
lover, and he knew her voice. Instantly he
sprang from his horse and hurried to the balcony,
where she still sat, with her weeping friends
around her. He took her in his arms and kissed
her, and called her “ Mary,” Still she did not
stir or speak. “ Help! ” cried the Countess
again, “ bring a doctor! ” But there was no
help for her — she was dead !
When the young Laird saw that it was indeed
so, he knelt by her side, and laid his face in her
lap, and took one of her thin, white hands in
his, and sorrowed over it.
So it was Death, and not the great Duke,—
Death, and not the humble Laird, — who came
for the lovely daughter of the Earl and Countess
of March. Not with the whiteness and brightness
of bridal robes and flowers, — not with the fast
ringing of merry marriage-bells, pealing out
louder and louder, and breaking in upon one
another like a group of happy young villagers,

in haste to tell each other some joyful news, —
hut with the black pomp of funeral ceremonies,
and with the slow ringing of the solitary chapel
bell, lengthening out each heavy toll, as though
sorry and afraid to repeat its mournful story.
It was for Lady Mary’s sake I wished to visit
Peebles and Nidpath Castle.

ÄJrt Cittj Crnss.

NEAR the Royal
Exchange Buildings,
Edinburgh, formerly
stood a large stone
cross, 'which surmounted an eight-sided turret.
It was demolished in 1756, and its destruction
has always been thought a foolish act of big
otry. Sir Walter Scott was especially indignant
about it.
From this cross, for several centuries, royal

edicts, new laws, and sovereigns were proclaimed,
with blowing of trumpets. The last Scottish king
here proclaimed was the Chevalier de St. George,
— or “the Pretender,” as he was called by the
English,—- under the title of James the Eighth
of Scotland, and third of England, by order of
his son, Charles Edward, acting as Prince Regent.
In this chapter I will endeavor to give you a con
densed history of these two remarkable royal per
sonages, and so have done with the Stuarts.
You will recollect that after King James the
Second was driven from his home and kingdom,
he was succeeded by his daughter, Mary, and her
husband, William of Orange, a Protestant Prince.
On the death of King William, who survived his
wife several years, Queen Mary’s sister, the Prin
cess Anne, ascended the throne. Her father had
died in exile, after bequeathing his rights to his
eldest son, who bore the foreign title of the Chev
alier de St. George. Queen Anne had no children
at the time of her accession to the throne, and her

Protestant counsellors, who were anxious to bar
out the Catholic Stuarts, advised her to have the
succession fixed upon a distant relative, George,
the Elector of Hanover, who'was a Protestant.
Queen Anne long hesitated. Her heart secretly
yearned towards her brother, and she sometimes
felt cruel remorse for the' course she had taken
towards her father, in turning against him, and
accepting the crown which had been forcibly taken
from his poor, obstinate old head. But she hardly
had courage to propose to her Protestant subjects
a Catholic king, and as the Chevalier was as fa
natically devoted to his religion as his father had
been, there was little hope of his coming round to
the right point.
When James the Second escaped to Erance, lie
was very courteously received by the great king,
Louis the Fourteenth, who assigned him a palace
at St. Germain, near Paris. Here he lived, in a
sort of idle mimicry of royal state, plotting and
intriguing, and always expecting that something
would “ turn up ” to restore him the crown and
kingdom which he had lost by his stupid tyranny.
His court was composed of exiled nobles and their
wives, — poor and proud, — mercenary soldiers,

reckless adventurers, and plenty of priests, I as
sure you. Here the young Prince James was
brought up. He was constantly taught that he
was the rightful heir to the British crown, and
that he must regain it from the usurpers ; yet he
was not well instructed in the duties of a king, or
a revolutionary leader. He was a tall, handsome
man, courteous and elegant in his manners, and
naturally kind and amiable; but lie lacked bold
ness, energy, and a strong will. In short, he
would have made a very nice, agreeable private
gentleman, but there was little of the real kingly
stuff about him.
When old King James was on his death-bed,
and very near his end, he sent word to Louis
the Fourteenth that he desired to see him. The
“ Grand Monarque,” as he was called, came in
great state, as he used to go everywhere, —- all
in velvet, brocade, and gold, — high-heeled shoes,
lace and diamonds, and in an enormous wig, that
would have quite put out any other man, like an
extinguisher. So he came to the dying king, and
his flattering courtiers said that the sight of him
was enough to awe Death himself, and drive him
out of that chamber.

The old king partly raised himself in bed, to
receive his magnificent visitor, whom he thanked
for all his kindness; and when the French king
graciously waved his hand, as much as to say,
“ There is no occasion for gratitude, I have really
done next to nothing,”—James, calling the young
Prince to his side, continued : “Yet for all your
kindness, my dear royal brother, I must leave
you but a troublesome legacy, — my son and his
fortunes. Show to him, I pray you, the same
magnanimous friendship you have shown to me,
discrowned and despoiled of my kingly rights.
Promise me this, and receive the blessing of a
dying man.”
“ I promise,” replied Louis. “ I will take him
and his under my protection. I will recognize
his right to the throne of Britain, — I will aid
him in winning his crown. So, my brother, de
part in peace, — if you really must go.”
On hearing this, James was affected to tears,
though being a king, he ought to have known
what king’s promises were worth; liis courtiers
also wept, — the young Chevalier wept, and even
the great Louis put his embroidered handkerchief
lo his eyes, — when, as it was his courtiers’ duty
10* o

to believe that he was weeping copiously, they
entirely broke down, and abandoned themselves
to tears of admiration and grief.
When King Louis had composed himself, he
bade King James a solemn adieu, and swept from
the chamber in all his glory and majesty, — and
then it did seem as if Death had been waiting
respectfully in the anteroom, and only came in
when he went out; for King James began to sink
immediately. He bade an affectionate farewell to
his family and court, then turned to his confessor,
and taking his crucifix, pressed it to his lips, and
said prayer after prayer till he died.
This generous and solemn promise of Louis
the Fourteenth gave great encouragement to the
Jacobites, as the adherents of the Stuarts were
called, from Jacobus, the Latin for James. After
much delay and many secret negotiations, Louis
actually furnished the Chevalier with an army
of five thousand men, and despatched him to
Dunkirk, where he was to sail for Scotland, in a
fleet under the command of the Count de Forbin.
Could they have sailed at once, the enterprise
might have been successful, as a large party in
Scotland were favorable to it, and England was

illy prepared to resist it, the greater part of
her army being in Flanders. But, just then,
the luckless Chevalier was taken down with the
measles, — a bad enough disease under any cir
cumstances, but in this case it may have lost the
Prince a kingdom; for it gave the English time
to prepare so well for the invasion, by land and
sea, that, though the French fleet actually reached
the Frith of Forth, the Count de Forbin refused
to land the Chevalier and his troops, but took
them all back to France as speedily as possible.
Louis seems to have thought that he had re
deemed his promise, or his memory was remarka
bly short, for not long afterwards he signed a
treaty, called u the treaty of Utrecht,” in which
he acknowledged Queen Anne’s right to the
throne, and actually agreed to expel her brother
from his dominions. So poor James was obliged
to seek another refuge. For some time he cher
ished hopes that his sister Anne would help to re
store his rights to him; but, as I have said, though
her heart favored him, she lacked courage to avow
her wish, and she died without naming him as
her successor. The English people imported
their next sovereign, — the Elector of Hanover,

— who reigned under the title of George the
First. After him came three other Georges, then
William the Fourth, then Queen Victoria, the
best and most beloved of the race. This change
of royal families is what is meant by the “ Hano
verian succession.”
King George did not behave in a magnanimous
or politic way towards the Scottish Jacobites. He
even refused to receive a loyal address from sev
eral Highland chiefs, represented by the Earl of
Mar. By so doing, he offended them all, and
especially Mar, whom he afterwards found a very
troublesome enemy.
In September, 1715, many Jacobite nobles and
gentlemen assembled at Aboyne, and proclaimed
the Chevalier de St. George King of England,
Ireland, and their dependencies, under the title
of James the Third, and of Scotland under that
of James the Eighth. The leaders set about rais
ing a revolutionary army at once. The High
land chiefs, as you know, were supreme rulers of
their clans: they did not invite, but commanded
them to rally and fight for their true prince.
After an ancient custom, they raised recruits by
sending “the fiery cross” through the different

clans. This cross was composed of two branches
of wood, one partly burned with fire and the
other stained with blood, —to signify that, if any
Scot to whom it should be sent should fail to
present himself at a certain place, which should
be named to him, he would be punished by fire
and sword. This symbol was sent from house to
house, and man to man, and none dared to disre
gard it. Yet few of the Highlanders needed any
threats at this time. Most of them were passion
ately attached to the cause of the Stuarts, were
dissatisfied with the union with England, and dis
gusted with the new king.
The Jacobites took the town of Perth, which
gave them great advantages,—but unfortunately,
their leader, Mar, was a poor general, and most
of the other chiefs were more brave and enthu
siastic than skilful or prudent. There were use
less delays, — there were mistakes and disagree
ments, and no decisive engagement took place
till the battle of Sheriffmuir was fought in No
vember. Both armies claimed the victory, but
the Jacobites lost by far the mofet men, and were
obliged to retreat, which surely was as like being
beaten as possible.

About the same time fourteen hundred of the
rebel forces were surrounded at Preston, and
compelled to surrender. The leaders were con
ducted to London, bound like felons, and many
of them put to death. They suffered brayely, for
as a general thing these adherents of the Stuarts
were grandly heroic men.
At last, in December, 1715, the Chevalier
himself arrived. He had embarked at Dunkirk,
in the disguise of a sailor, with only six followers,
also disguised, on a small vessel loaded with a
cargo of brandy. Yet he failed to impart spirits
to the Jacobites. Things had been so badly man
aged,— all felt so discouraged by defeat, and
weakened, as it were, by the loss of so much noble
blood, shed in vain, — that not even the presence
of him they believed their rightful king could give
them hope and strengh. Moreover, the Cheva
lier himself was disheartened and ill. It was not
the measles this time, but the ague, which seemed
to have shaken all the courage and will out of
him. After a few miserable attempts at royalty
and, generalship, but without fighting a single
battle, he abandoned the enterprise, and, with the
Earl of Mar, escaped to the Continent, leaving his

army, beset by a powerful force under the Duke
of Argyle, to save themselves if they could.
So ended the rebellion of 1715 ; a humiliating
termination, which one would suppose might have
cured the Scots of their mad attachment to the
Stuarts, but it did not.
Soon after the Chevalier returned to the Conti
nent, he married the Princess Clementina Sobi-
eski, of Poland, the heiress to an immense fortune,
who thought, simple girl, that she was making a
magnificent marriage, and doubtless looked for
ward to sharing the throne of Great Britain with
her husband, now poor, powerless, crownless, and
hunted from all the courts of Europe, the Pope’s
There were two children from this marriage.
Charles Edward, born in 1720, to whom the Jaco
bites gave the title of Prince of Wales, — and,
five years after, Benedict, Duke of York, who en
tered the Church, and was made a cardinal.
Charles Edward was bred up to win back the

lost crown of tlie Stuarts; and as soon as lie grew
to manhood, he was urged on to his great work.
Poor fellow, he was worthy of a better fate, ■—
for he was by nature noble, brave, persevering,
kind-hearted, and affable. He was tall, fair, and
handsome, though his face had rather a melan
choly expression. But he was not much better
calculated to make a good king than his father.
He knew little of the science of government, or
the true character of the English people. Be
sides being a zealous Papist, he was a devout
believer in the “ divine right of kings ” to do pre
cisely as they pleased in all things, and at all
times, — a false and foolish doctrine, which cost
his father and grandfather a crown, and his great
grandfather his head beside. He was haughty
and extremely selfish, though always courteous,
and sometimes very gentle and winning in his
The king and the prince — or the Chevalier de
St. George and the Chevalier Douglas, or the two
Pretenders — kept up a secret correspondence
with the English and Scottish Jacobites for sev
eral years, and on the first opportunity which
seemed at all favorable, Charles Edward set out

on another rasli and romantic expedition, for the
old cause. He acted as regent for his father.
He landed in Scotland in July, 1745, and was
warmly welcomed by a few devoted Jacobites,,
who were ready to struggle and die, if need be,
for the house of Stuart.
The prince was certainly not wanting in
promptness. He at once caused his standard to
be raised, and called on his countrymen, espe
cially the Highlanders, to rally around their true
prince. He marched rapidly from point to point,
and kindled a wild flame of enthusiasm as he
went. The Highlands resounded with loyal
shouts, songs, and battle-cries, and the fierce
mountaineers came rushing down from glens and
forests and rocky fastnesses, in mad haste to offer
themselves to “ Royal Charlie.” He received
them all with gracious condescension, but he did
not say or feel that they were doing anything
more than simple duty in devoting to him their
swords and their lives. He thought that all who
acknowledged him as the rightful prince belonged
to him, and he made as free with their blood and
their money for his purposes, as with their wine
and venison when they feasted him.

Success followed success, till all Scotland was
roused and England in a terrible state of conster
nation. George the Second was now king. He,
like liis father, was little calculated to win the af
fection or admiration of his subjects. The con
trast between his majesty, who was a gross, dull
man, and the elegant, handsome young Chevalier,
was very great, and, for my part, I am afraid I
should have gone with the Highlanders for “ Bon
nie Prince Charlie.”
In September, the city of Edinburgh was taken
by the Laird of Lockiel, the prince’s greatest
leader, when Charles Edward took possession of
the Palace of Holyrood. Here he established a
court, which, in spite of the times, became very
gay and brilliant. The prince and his nobles
were, however, soon called to sterner scenes.
They met the English at Preston, and won a fa
mous victory. Their next undertaking was a
march southward, with the bold purpose of driv
ing King George from his own capital. But after
reaching Derby, they were obliged to retreat,
much to the rage and shame of the rash Cheva
lier. The next important event was the battle
of Falkirk, which the prince won, but it did not

advantage him much, for he was soon after it
obliged to retire to the Highlands with his forces.
I have not space to relate the history of the re
bellion from this to the great closing battle of
Culloden, which took place on the 16th of April,
1746. On this most terrible day, King George’s
forces, regular soldiers, were commanded by the
Duke of Cumberland, and were 9,000 strong,
opposed to only about 5,000 undisciplined High
landers. Yet the prince’s followers showed at
first no signs of dismay at the odds against
them. They shouted cheerily and sounded the
wild Pibroch on their bagpipes, and rushed into
battle with their old impetuosity. But they were
met at all points with such steady, obstinate
valor, and attacked with such overwhelming
force, that they were soon disconcerted and
driven back with dreadful loss. Some elans
proved cowardly and treacherous, refusing to
fight, and flying early from the field.
Though Prince Charles behaved gallantly
enough while he had hope, he fled as fast and
as far as any of them when he saw that the bat
tle was lost. The Duke of Cumberland sent
his dragoons in pursuit of the flying, command-

ing them to show no mercy, but to cut down all
they could overtake. And they did it, — perhaps
willingly, perhaps reluctantly; hut the shame and
crime of the inhuman slaughter rested, and al
ways will rest, with the Duke himself. The
flower of the Jacobite nobility and gentry were
slain in this battle, or executed for treason after
wards, and mourning and desolation were brought
to thousands of happy Scottish homes.
It would take a volume to contain a faithful
history of all Charles Edward’s wanderings, per
ils, and adventures, from the day of his defeat at
Culloden to that of his escape to France, five
months after; for during all that time he was a
hunted fugitive. Of course I cannot relate them
here at length.
The prince first sought refuge in the west
Highlands, where he met some of his adherents,
whom he told, in his old, hopeful, undaunted
way, that he intended to run over to France,
for supplies and reinforcements, and return speed
ily to strike another blow for the good cause, —
to settle the affairs of the Guelphs of Hanover.
Some, as rash and sanguine as he, were com
forted by these words ; but some sighed and

shook their heads; none reproached him, except
it was by the blood of their wounds, yet un
washed from their torn garments, and the deep
despair in their eyes.
Prince Charles next embarked for the Long
Island, near the Isle of Skye, on the western
coast of Scotland, where he hoped to find some
sort of a vessel to take him to France. He
landed at South Uist, where he was met by
Clanranald, a faithful follower, who, for safety,
procured him a humble lodging in a forester’s
hut. But even here he was not long secure.
General Campbell, the MacDonalds of Skye, Mac
Leod of MacLeod, and other Scots to the num
ber of two thousand, who might have been in
better business than hunting their true prince,
came down upon the island, and eagerly searched
it from north to south and east to west. It was
at this time that Prince Charles met with his
most romantic adventure. It happened that a
beautiful young lady, Mss Flora MacDonald,
was once on a visit to the Clanranalds of Soutli
Uist, and, hearing of the Chevalier’s peril,
nobly undertook to rescue him. Her stepfather
was in command of the MacDonalds, then on

the island in search of him, and all her clan
were anti-Jacobites; but few Scottish women
were in heart ever opposed to the gallant young
prince, and Flora’s heart was now greatly touched
by his misfortunes. She was not long in laying
her plans, nor slow in carrying them out. She
applied to her stepfather for a pass for herself,
a man-servant, and a maid-servant, proposing to
return to the Isle of Skye. She obtained the
passport without difficulty, — Charles Edward
disguising himself, and passing for the maid
servant. Only think of it,—the splendid Chev
alier assuming the dress and manner of a poor
Scotch lass, and adding to his other appellations
and titles the name of Betty Burke! But ele
gant as the prince was in his own dress, he was
ungraceful enough in this. Indeed, he came
very near betraying himself many times by his
awkwardness. He would every now and then
strike into a grand princely stride, and, when
reminded of it, would curb himself down into
little mincing steps that everybody laughed to
see. He did not seem to know just what to do
with his hands; and when he sat down he was
afraid to get up, lest he should entangle his feet

in liis skirts. He did not dare to trust his voice;
so lie concluded to say nothing to any one, which,
of course,, excited suspicions that he was not a
woman. Yes, there were those who suspected
Miss Betty Burke to be no better than a Stuart
in disguise ; but if they were tempted to betray
their prince, and so win the reward, there was
something in Flora MacDonald’s eye which made
them afraid and ashamed to commit such a
treacherous act. So the party all got safely to
the Isle of Skye. But the prince was not yet
in security, though hidden in a dark cave by the
wild sea-shore. Sir Alexander MacDonald was
making a rigid search over the island. In this
extremity, Flora did what many men would call
a very rash thing, — confided her secret to another
woman, and that woman the wife of Sir Alexan
der. Lady Margaret was frightened ; but she
was generous and true, and never once thought
of betraying the unfortunate prince to her hus
band. She concluded to confide the fugitive to
the care of MacDonald of Kingsburg. Flora
accompanied her charge to the house of this
MacDonald, who received him respectfully and
promised him his protection; not only because

he was his prince, but a fellow-man in deadly
peril; and not from fear, but love of Flora Mac-
Donald, who had captivated him by her generous
From Kingsburg the prince went to the island
of Rasa, where he suffered great privations, and
from thence back to Scotland, where he wandered
and wandered, in want and weariness and peril,
— everywhere hunted, but everywhere finding
friends, who, though poor and wretched like him
self, were too proud and noble to win wealth by
betraying him to his enemies. For several weeks,
he took refuge in a cavern with seven other out
laws, who had taken to robbing “ as the only way
of gaining an honest livelihood,” they said.
Prince Charles was in no condition to be over-
scrupulous, so he allowed them to procure him a
change of clothes from the first well-dressed trav
eller they could waylay, and ate and drank what
they set before him, “ asking no questions for
conscience’ sake.”
Charles Edward owed his final escape to a sin
gular piece of devotion and forethought. v There
was a young officer of his army who was said to
look remarkably like him, — one Roderick Mac-

Kinzie, now a fugitive like himself, who was one
day overtaken by the King’s troops, and mortally
wounded. As he lay in his last agonies, he
looked up at his murderers and exclaimed, “ Ah
villains, you have slain your prince ! ” This was
a falsehood certainly, but there was something so
noble about it that one can hardly condemn it, —
at all events, it saved the prince’s life, for Rod
erick’s words were believed, and his head was
taken off and sent to London. Here the mistake
was discovered ; but in the mean time, the search
for the prince was given over in Scotland, and he
had time to make his escape. He sailed for
France from Lochnannah with Lochiel and about
an hundred others, on the 15th of September, and
landed at Morlaix on the 29th; and so ended the
last attempt of the Stuarts to regain the throne
of their ancestors. Not that they ever wholly
abandoned their pretensions and their plans,—
they clung to them desperately for a long time.
But they no longer found many others mad
enough to sacrifice their all for a cause so hope
less. And the world went on, — the scaffold
ceased to drip with the blood of their 'followers,
and the prison to echo their groans. The grasr
11 r

sprang up long and rank on the battle-field of
Culloden, — over the ashes of homes desolated in
their wars, over the graves of men who had
died broken-hearted for their sakes, of mothers
and wives made childless and widowed by their
ambition, — the pibroch was sounded no longer
among the wild Highlands, —■ the fiery cross was
borne no more from house to house, a portent of
battle and death, — and the Stuarts were for
Once, as I was strolling about a damp, mouldy
old church in Frascati, a little town among the
Alban hills, near Rome, I suddenly came upon a
marble slab in the wall, with a Latin inscription,
which said that under it was buried Charles Ed
ward, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland..
So here he lay, the gallant prince, the accom
plished chevalier, the darling royal Charlie of the
He died at Rome in 1T88, but it seems was
buried here, in his brother’s cathedral, though
there is a great Stuart monument in St. Peter’s
Church. *The latter part of his life was unhappy
and discreditable. It seems it would have been

better if he had fallen in his noblest days on his
last battle-field, and been buried there. There
his royal blood might at least have nourished a
daisy or a wild lily, and his memory would have
haunted the spot like the pure air and the sun
shine. Here is no light, no freshness, nothing
but shadow and mould, and that pompous Latin
epitaph, claiming for his poor dust the crown he
vainly grasped after all his life.
Now a few words about Flora MacDonald.
After the escape of Charles Edward, she and her
brave lover were arrested and imprisoned in the
Tower; but the king was soon obliged from
very shame to pardon and release them. Then
Flora became, as they say, “all the rage” in
London. Everybody crowded to see her, honored
and applauded her. Even the king’s eldest son,
Prince Frederick, praised her generous heroism.
Perhaps he thought in such revolutionary times,
he might need such loyal devotion as well as the
other Prince of Wales, and believed in encourag
ing such things.
The gifts bestowed upon Flora by her numer
ous admirers amounted to no less than fifteen
hundred pounds, — quite a little fortune, which

she bestowed upon MacDonald of Kingsburg,
with what was infinitely more precious, her love
and her hand in marriage. These two noble Mac
Donalds resided for a while in America, but they
returned to pass their last years in the Isle of
Skye. Their graves are in the churchyard of
Kilmuir. The tombstone of the heroine was
once inlaid with a marble slab, but this has been
broken and carried off bit by bit, by curious tour
ists. Yet she did not need it; her beautiful fame
is better than a hundred epitaphs. Flora Mac
Donald, the fairest flower that ever bloomed in
the rough path of her prince’s hard fortunes,
giving a tender grace to his traffic story, and
sweetening his memory in the heart of the

Mtlxmt - üliliotefarii. - Injhtirgli.

IT was on a cool
and breezy autumn
morning, now sunny,
and now showery,
that we bade adieu to dear old Edinburgh, and
turned our faces towards England, intending to
visit a few remarkable places on our way. We
stopped first at Melrose, to see the ruined Ab
bey which Sir Walter Scott has made famous
by his u Lay of the Last Minstrel.”

Melrose, about tliirty-seven miles from Edin
burgh, is situated on the Tweed, a small but beau
tiful river, and above it rise the gray Eildon Hills,
long famed in song and story. The Abbey, the
most magnificent and perfect specimen of Gothic
architecture existing in Scotland, was founded
in 1136 by David the First, was destroyed by Ed
ward the Second, and rebuilt by Robert Bruce.
It was afterwards greatly injured at various times
by the English, but finally made a complete ruin
of by the Protestants, at the Reformation. Yet
there is enough of it still remaining to give one
an imposing idea of its beauty and grandeur. Its
sculpture is still wonderful to see, and the ivy
and wall-flowers which grow all about among the
ruins are not more perfect and graceful than the
stone vines, flowers, and foliage in the windows
and arches, and around the mighty pillars,—-
carved so many hundred years ago.
A host of noble knights, and a king or two,
have been buried in Melrose Abbey. Many of
the warlike family of Douglas sleep the long sleep
in this desolate but lovely place. Robert Bruce’s
heart, which travelled so far and went through so
many adventures after it was out of his body, was

at last deposited liere under the high altar, where
it long ago mingled with common dust. But his
noble fame yet lives, and beats on, like a brave,
strong heart, in the life of his country.
As I was standing opposite one of the great
windows of the Abbey, admiring its exquisite
sculptures, the old guide, pointing to a fallen
pillar, said, “ That, madam, was the favorite
seat o’ Sir Walter Scott. Mony ’s the time I
hae seen him sitting there, leaning 011 his staff,
wi’ his dogs at his feet, and the great thoughts
glissting and glowering in his een.”
I sat down on this pillar for a moment, with
more reverence than I had felt a few months
before, while sitting in Westminster Abbey on
the “ Stone of Scone,” on which so many Scot
tish and English monarclis had been crowned.
From Melrose we drove a few miles to Abbots
ford, the seat of Sir Walter Scott. This is one
of the most noble and beautiful residences in all
Scotland. It is situated on the south bank of
the Tweed, near its junction with the Gala, sur
rounded by a fine picturesque country, and in
full sight of the Eildon Hills.
The delightful grounds of Abbotsford are now

as they were planned and planted by Sir Walter.
The house is of the Gothic style, with a great
many towers and gables, irregular and peculiar,
but very stately and beautiful.
We entered by a handsome porch, ornamented
with petrified stag-horns, into a lofty hall, paved
with black and white marble, brought from the
Hebrides, and panelled with richly carved oak,
from the old royal palace of Dumfermline. The
walls are hung with ancient arms, and decorated
with the armorial crests of the great Scottish
families of the borders. From this we passed
into the armory, where, among many curious
specimens of arms, we saw Montrose’s sword and
Rob Roy’s gun, — two of Sir Walter’s greatest
At one end of the armory is the drawing-room,
a very elegant apartment, lined with cedar-wood,
and furnished with ebony, and containing several
curious and costly carved cabinets. At the other
end is the dining-room, a spacious and lofty sa
loon, with a ceiling of black oak. Here Sir Wal
ter entertained not only his many friends, but
countless strangers and foreign travellers, with a
hospitality like that of the great-hearted barons

of old. This room contains several fine pictures,
and interesting family portraits ; among the latter
is a likeness of Sir Walter when he was a little
boy. It represents a delicate, fair-haired child;
but the expression is very thoughtful and ear
nest, and the head has a grand, prophetic look
about it.
The next room I recollect is a charming little
breakfast parlor, looking out upon the Tweed,
and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow. Then there
is the library, the largest room in the house. It
has a roof of oak, carved after beautiful models in
Roslin Castle. The collection of books is a very
rare one, and amounts to twenty thousand vol
umes. Out of the library opens the study, — a
small, neat apartment, containing a few books,
and furnished only with a plain writing-table and
an arm-chair. Here Sir Walter used to write.
In a small closet, opening out of the study,
are kept the clothes which Sir Walter last wore
about the grounds of Abbotsford. It is a very
plain country-suit, — a dark-blue coat, with large
buttons, plaid trousers, a pair of thick shoes, a
broad-brimmed hat, and a sturdy walking-stick.
The sight of these, more than anything else in

that house, touched my heart. No costly royal
robes, glittering with diamonds and pearls, could
ever seem to me so worthy of reverence as these
plain, homely garments, on which must have
fallen many tears of tender love and sorrow,
worth more than all the jewels in the world.
We went away from Abbotsford very thought
ful and sad, and did not say much to each other
throughout our drive to Dryburgh Abbey. Here,
in a lovely, lonely spot, in the midst of a noble
old ruin, overgrown with ivy, wall-flowers, and
sweet wild-roses, Sir Walter was buried beside
his dear wife,— and here since his eldest son
has been laid.
Sir Walter loved to visit this beautiful ruin,
which was once the property of his ancestors, and
it seems a fitting and grand place for him to rest
in, after all the toils, cares, and sorrows of his
hard, though splendid life.
I think, dear children, that I cannot make a
better close to this volume of sketches and recol
lections of Scotland, than by relating a true and
wonderful, though perhaps you will think rather
a sad story : —

25 H
Walter Scott, the son of Walter Scott, was born
in Edinburgh, in 1771. His father, a lawyer of
some repute, who belonged to an old and highly
respectable family, was a man of good mind and
excellent heart; his mother, the daughter of an
eminent physician, was an amiable and intellect
ual lady.
Mr. and Mrs. Scott had twelve children, but
all, except four sons and one daughter, died in
infancy. Walter was one of the youngest. He
was a strong and healthy child, till he was about
eighteen months old, when, after a little attack
of fever, resulting from teething, he lost the use
of his right leg.
The best physicians of Edinburgh were called
to see him, and everything which they believed
or imagined could help him was done; but all in
vain. At last, the doctors gave up,—just in time
to save his life, probably, and he was sent to his
grandfather Scott’s, for the benefit of country air.
Here he remained for several years, most kindly
and tenderly cared for, and improving in health

and strength, but not wholly recovering from his
lameness. Indeed, he suffered from it, more or
less, to the day of his death.
There was an old shepherd on his grandfather’s
farm of whom little Walter was very fond. This
man, “ Anld Sandy Ormistoun,” used to take
him on his shoulders, and carry him out to the
hills where he was watching his flocks. Here
the child would roll about on the soft, green turf,
among the sheep and lambs, and watch the white
fleecy clouds floating above him, — thinking, per
haps, that they looked like another flock of sheep,
in the great fields of the sky, — and be quiet and
good and happy, hour after hour. One day the
shepherd left him alone, and went down to the
house for something, and while he was gone a
thunder-storm came up. Then his Aunt Jenny,
remembering where he was, ran to the hills to
bring him home. She expected to find him
dreadfully frightened; but he was lying on his
back, looking up at the flashes of lightning,
and exclaiming: “ Bonnie! bonnie ! ”
When Walter was about six years old, he was
taken to Bath, England, for the benefit of the
waters; which, however, did not do him much

good. While here, he saw, for the first time, a
play acted. There was a scene in this which rep
resented a quarrel between two brothers, and the
affectionate little fellow was so much shocked at
it, that he cried out indignantly: “Ain’t they
brothers ? ”
On returning from Bath, Walter, after a little
visit to his home, went back to his grandfather’s,
where he throve best. He was mostly under the
care of his Aunt Jenny, a good and beautiful
woman, but his grandparents and his kind Uncle
Thomas were very fond of him. His grandfather
used to tell him stories, and his grandmother
would repeat ballads to him, and almost as soon
as he could talk, he showed a remarkable fond
ness for such things.
By degrees, he grew strong enough to walk,
then to run and climb among the rocks and crags.
At last, he got quite above riding old Sandy Or-
mistoun, but learned to canter about on a Shet
land pony, no larger than a Newfoundland dog.
Indeed, she was so small that he used to ride her
into the house. He fed her with his own hands,
and called her “ Marion.”
But though he grew to be a merry, sturdy,

manly boy, Walter was always gentle and good.
As one of the old servants said, long afterwards:
“ He was a sweet-tempered bairn ; a darling with
all the house.”
When he was about eight years old, he returned
home to live and go to school. He was not con
sidered one of the first scholars in the institu
tion he attended, — the Edinburgh High School,
for he lacked ambition and diligence, — but he
was always thought a remarkably able and quick
witted boy. His memory was really wonderful.
There was no end to the songs, ballads, and fairy
tales which he had by heart. If anything struck
his fancy, he could remember it without difficulty.
His father rather discouraged his passion for po
etry and romance, but his mother, who was also
poetic in her tastes, used to read with him, and
.listen to his fine recitations with delight. He was
greatly beloved by his schoolmates, who eagerly
crowded around him in play hours, to listen to
his stories, and who were sure of his help and
sympathy in all their boyish difficulties and sor
He did not study as assiduously as he should
aave done, and he afterwards regretted this ; but.

he read constantly, and so laid up, in liis own
irregular way, a vast store of information. He
could not be brought to love Greek and Latin,
but he learned to read, mostly by himself, Ger
man, Spanish, and Italian, and he spoke French
very well. He never let his lameness and awk
ward limp keep him from exercising with the
other boys, and after a while he distinguished
himself by feats of strength and daring. He
grew tall and robust, and used to take long walks
into the country, with his favorite schoolfellows,
sometimes taking an arm of one of them, and
always'making use of a cane.
At sixteen, he entered upon an apprentice
ship to his father. He was faithful and diligent
in business, but he still found time for reading
and the manly sports in which he had such de
light. During this apprenticeship he made sev
eral excursions into the Highlands, 011 business,
and there acquired much information, which he
afterwards made excellent use of. Indeed,
wherever he went, through all his life, from
everything he saw and heard, he learned some
thing useful.
There are many interesting anecdotes told of

Walter Scott in his youth, but I have room for
only one, which seems to me very beautiful.
One winter, while attending the lectures of the
celebrated Dugald Stewart, upon Moral Philoso
phy, he used to sit beside a young man who
seemed in humble circumstances, but who had an
interesting and modest manner, and was evi
dently a diligent student. Scott liked him, and
of course he liked Scott, — everybody did. Yet,
though they became quite familiar friends, and
often had long walks, and frank, cordial talks
together, Walter noticed that his companion
never said anything about his own home, or par
entage. One day, as Scott was returning alone
from a ramble, he was struck by the venerable
appearance of a “ Bluegown,” a beggar of the
most respectable class, who was standing by the
way-side, leaning on his staff, and silently holding
out his hat for alms. Scott gave him some
money, and passed on. Several times after he
found him in the same place and gave him alms,
and once this happened when he was walking
with the poor student. As he dropped his gift
into the extended hat, he noticed a strange ex
pression 011 the young man’s face, and, as the?

went on, lie asked: “Do you know anything to
the old man’s discredit, Willie ? ”
His friend burst into tears, as he answered:
“ 0 no, God forbid, but I am a poor wretch to
be ashamed to speak to him,—he is my own fa
ther I He has enough laid by to serve him for
his own old days, but he stands bleaching his
head in the wind, that he may get the means to
pay for my education.”
Scott felt deeply for the poor fellow’s mortify
ing situation; he soothed him, comforted him,
kept his secret, and never once thought of drop
ping his acquaintance. He was too noble for
that. If he had not been, I should not now be
writing his life with so much love in my heart.
Some time after, when the lectures were over,
Walter one day met the old “ Bluegown,” who,
looking all round to see that nobody could over
hear him, said: “ I find, sir, that you have
been very kind to my Willie. He had often
spoken of it before I saw you together. Will
you pardon such a liberty, and give me the
honor of seeing you under my poor roof? Wil
lie has not been well, and it would do him good
to see your face.”

Of course, Scott went. He found his humble
friends living in a neat little cabin at St. Leon-;
ard’s, near Edinburgh. Willie, very pale and
thin, from his illness, was sitting on a stone bench
by the door, looking for his coming, and was very
glad and grateful when he saw him. During this
visit, the old man talked of his plans and hopes
for his darling son, and said: “Please God, I
may live to see my bairn wag his head in a pul
pit yet.”
When Scott returned home, he confided the
story of Willie to his mother, and so much inter
ested her in him that she exerted her influence
and obtained for him the situation of tutor in
a gentleman’s family, after which his poor old
father gave up. begging and lived upon his sav
So when Willie came to “ wag his head in a
pulpit,” he had to tliank the friendship of. his
fellow-student, then a great man. I hope he did
not boast of him in public, but remembered him
when he prayed alone.
When Walter Scott was about twenty-eight, an
advocate of some distinction, and just becoming
known as a poet, he visited the English lakes, and

while stopping at G-ilsland, he one morning saw
a beautiful young lady on horseback. He was
charmed both by her sweet face and her graceful
riding,—he made her acquaintance, and liked
her so well, that as soon as he could win her love,
he married her. So Miss Charlotte Margaret Car
penter became Mrs. Walter Scott, to the satisfac
tion of all his friends. At this time, the poet is
described as tall and handsome, with a glowing,
kindly, honest face,—now playful as a child’s,
now thoughtful and dreamy, but always sweet
and gentle. He had an intense love for every
thing beautiful, high, and honorable, and a manly
scorn of meanness, pretension, and coarseness.
He had no vices, no follies, and no enemies. He
was sincere, simple, and courteous to all; and,
great as his intellect was, his heart was still
- Shortly after his marriage, Scott was appointed
Sheriff of Selkirkshire, and some years later,
Clerk of Session, — offices which he long filled
with faithfulness and honor. He was thirty-four
when he published his first long poem, “ The Lay
of the Last Minstrel,” which at once made him a
famous man. He was then living in a beautiful

country-place, called Ashestiel, and had four chil
dren,— Sophia,-Walter, Anne, and Charles. He
never had any more, but God in his goodness
spared all these till he was gone, and then let
them follow him soon. Walter Scott was a care
ful and tender father. He loved the society of his
children, and was never disturbed by their play
and prattle. They sat at the same table with
him, walked and rode with him, and came into his
study at all times. He talked with them, told
them stories and ballads, taught them to be truth
ful and courageous, and took part in all their
pleasures and sorrows. And the children, though
they* deeply honored and loved “ papa,” did not
fear him, or have any uncomfortable awe in his
presence. In the dreariest weather, they were
content and merry if he were at home, and they
could not enjoy the pleasantest excursion, if he
were not along.
It was said of Scott, that “he was a gentleman,
even to his dogs.” He was more, — a merciful
Christian man to all dumb creatures. On Sunday
he would not use his horses, for, he said, “ they
also needed a day of rest,” but after church ser
vice, he would walk out with his family and his

dogs, and, when the weather would allow, dine
with them in the open air. At these times he
gave his children religious instruction, and told
them Bible stories in such a simple, pleasant way,
as to make them think Sunday the happiest day
of the week.
There were always several fine dogs in Walter
Scott’s family, who were pets and playfellows for
the children, and almost companions for their
master. The most famous of them were Camp,
a terrier, and Maida, a stag-hound. These two
were several times painted, by great artists;
Maida grew so tired of being “ taken,” at last,
that as soon as she saw any one preparing to make
a sketch of her, she would get up and walk off in
Camp always accompanied his master in his
rides and rambles, till he got too old and feeble,
— but he never lost his affection or his intelli
gence. At Ashestiel he would go out every night
to meet Scott, always taking the way indicated
by the servant, who would say to him: “ Camp,
the Sheriff is coming home by the ford,” or, u by
the hill.”
Shortly after the family removed to Edinburgh,

Camp died, and was buried by moonlight, in a
little garden, back of the house, and in sight of
the window of his master’s study. The poet him
self laid him in the grave, and sadly smoothed
down the turf above him, while the whole family
stood by in tears. Scott had engaged to dine out
that day, but excused himself on account “ of the
death of a dear old friend.” How I like that in
Maida, beautiful Maida ! lived and died at Ab
botsford, where a monument was erected to her
In 1808 and 1810, Scott published “ Mar-
mion” and “The Lady of the Lake,” delightful
poems, which made him idolized in his native
land, and spread the circle of his fame till it
had widened over the world. Soon after this,
he purchased Abbotsford, then a lonely, uncul
tivated place, but which he saw could be made
very beautiful. His first plan was to build a
simple cottage ; but, as his means increased, he
became ambitious for something grander, and,
after several years, the present noble mansion
was erected.
In 1814, Scott published “Waverley,” the first

of the most wonderful series of romances ever
written, called the “ The Waverley Novels.” He
did not give his name as the writer of this work;
and for several years only his publishers and a
few friends knew to a certainty that he was the
sole author of this and the many splendid novels
that rapidly followed it.
For a few bright years, Scott was one of the
happiest as well as one of the greatest of men.
His works brought him in large sums of money,
which he spent in buying new lands, in planting
and building at Abbotsford. He was successful
in all he undertook. Men and women of genius,
princes, and the highest nobility flocked to : see
him. He was rich, he was honored, and, what
was far better, he saw his beautiful children
growing up around him, healthful, intelligent,
and good. I am glad to be able to say that he
bore his fame and fortune with a manly humility,
and always found his greatest happiness in help
ing and pleasing others.
Scott had two friends at Abbotsford whom he
especially loved and trusted,— Mr. Laidlaw, or
“ Willie Laidlaw,” his steward, a very intelligent
man, and a poet; and Tom Purdie, his forester,

the most faithful of servants, who loved his mas
ter with all his great, honest heart.
I have only space to mention a few of the prin
cipal events in the busy and splendid life of Scott.
He was made a baronet by George the Fourth, in
1820. Shortly after, his eldest daughter, Sophia,
was married to Mr. Lockhart. His son Walter
was in the army ; Charles was a clerk in govern
ment office.
And now I come to the dark days. In conse
quence of some unwise speculations, his pub
lishers, with whom he was in partnership, in a
time of commercial difficulty and panic, became
involved, failed, and Sir Walter was ruined!
He gave up all to his creditors, even his be
loved books; and nobly resolved to devote the
rest of his life, if necessary, to the payment of
all demands against him, enormous as they were.
About this time, trouble after trouble came upon
him. His little grandson', John Hugh Lockhart,
or “ Hugh Littlejohn,” as he is called in the
“ Tales of a Grandfather,” for whom, on account
of a lameness like his own, he had always felt a
peculiar tenderness, was given over by the physi
cians as an incurable invalid.

Then Lady Scott, his gentle and beloved wife,
died at Abbotsford, after a painful illness. Yet,
amid losses, embarrassments, anxieties, and bitter
griefs, the brave and conscientious man labored
on, allowing himself no time for rest or weeping.
He finished liis great “ Life of Napoleon,” — he
wrote novels, essays, reviews, biographies, poems,
toiling so incessantly, so terribly hard, that at
length his health, and, what was sadder still, his
mind, began to give way. Within the first two
years after his failure, he paid his creditors forty
thousand pounds! — all made by his pen.
One evening, in 1829, “ honest Tom Purdie,”
after a hard day’s work, leaned his head on his
table and fell asleep. As he had seemed perfectly
well, his family did not try to wake him for some
time, but went softly about, and spoke low, for
they knew he was tired. When supper was
ready, they called him. He did not answer.
They lifted his head from the table, and found
that he was dead! This was another shock to
the affectionate heart and broken spirit of Sir
A few months after, he had a paralytic stroke,
—was extremely ill and speechless for some time,

but rallied, and very soon went to work again.
It was in vain his children and friends entreated
him to give himself a little rest. He could not
rest, he said, he could not live under such a load
of debt. In 1830, he had another attack of paral
ysis, yet rallied again, and that same year paid
his creditors another large sum. They, in grati
tude for his exertions, gave back to him the
library, museum, plate, furniture, and paintings
at Abbotsford,—where he was allowed to reside
when he wished. This generous kindness cheered
him very much, and he went on with his labors.
But alas, he could not write any more in his old
strong, clear style! There seemed a mist over
his mind, and his thoughts grew weak and wan
dering. Yet, every now and then, his genius
flashed out as bright as ever, and as his daily
talk and habits were little changed, those around
him hardly dared to say to one another, “He is
In the spring of 1881, he had a stroke of paral
ysis which not only injured his memory and his
speech, but somewhat distorted his face. He
also suffered greatly from rheumatism, cramps,
and increased lameness. From every attack he

rose up feebler, and more bewildered, but still
strong in will. He was like some noble animal,
struck down by repeated blows, but still strug
gling up and staggering on, weak and blinded.
Jn the fall, he went to Italy, with a little hope of
getting better. He was accompanied by his son
Walter and his daughter Anne. They visited
many places which would have deeply interested
the poet in his happier days,—but now they gave
him little pleasure. He was ill, weary, melan
choly, and homesick. His great fame was now a
real affliction, for it caused people to press upon
him in a way that was almost cruel. His chief
comfort was in a strange delusion. He imagined
that all his debts were paid, and he was a free
man, with ample means once more. At times,
this happy hallucination left him, and he would
go to work harder than ever, and bring on an
other attack. While at Naples, he wrote in his
diary : “ Poor Johnny Lockhart! The boy is
gone whom we made so much of.” Yes, his
darling grandson was dead.
Sir Walter grew alarmingly worse, and begged
to be taken home, that he might die at Abbots
ford ; so, early in the summer his party returned
12 *

to England. At the hotel in London he lay for
some weeks in a state of utter exhaustion and
stupor. Yet he knew his children, and would
rouse up now and then and speak to them in
the old loving way, and tell them how his heart
yearned for Abbotsford. As soon as it was
thought safe for him to travel farther, he was
taken home. He did not seem to take notice of
anything till they came in sight of Melrose, and
other familiar places, when he became greatly
excited with joy, and as they drew near Abbots
ford he could scarcely be kept in the carriage, he
was so impatient to reach it.
Mr. Laidlaw met him at the porch, and helped
him into the house. Sir Walter’s eye lighted
up at sight of his old friend, and he exclaimed,
“ Ha! Willie Laidlaw, 0 man, how often I have
thought of you.” His dogs came crowding around
his chair, fawning on him and licking his hands.
He bent down and smiled and wept over them for
a while, then fell back and went to sleep.
The next’ morning he awoke refreshed, calm
and conscious, and asked to be taken out to see
his garden and grounds. Willie Laidlaw wheeled
him about for some time, in a Bath chair, fob

lowed by his children, his grandchildren, and liis
favorite dogs. He often smiled tenderly on them'
all, and on the summer glory of the flowers and
trees, and talked a little, very sweetly and like
himself. Then he wished to be wheeled through
his house, and as they passed around the lofty
suite of rooms, endeared to him by so many sweet
and bright memories, he said, “ I have seen much,
but nothing like my own house, — give me one
turn more.”
After this, for a little while, he took the air
daily in his Bath chair, and so visited several
spots most dear to him in his grounds. He often
asked .Mr. Lockhart to read to him, and it was
noticed that, though he seemed to have forgotten
poems that he had once had by heart, he never
forgot the Bible, which he loved more than ever;
and one night, when his little grandson, TV alter
Lockhart, was repeating some of TV atts’s Hymns,
be seemed to remember them perfectly.
One day, he asked to be taken to his study, foi
lie wanted to write. His daughters opened his
desiv and got everything ready for him, and he
was wheeled into his old place. He smiled and
said, “Thank you, — now give me my pen and

leave me to myself for a while.” Mrs. Lockhart
put the pen into his hand, but the poor old man
could not hold it. As it dropped upon the paper
he sank back on his pillow, burst into tears., and
gave up forever!
Soon after this, he was taken to his own room,
which he never left again. Yet he lingered until
the 21st of September, most of the time in a state
of complete stupor and unconsciousness. On the
morning of the 17th he awoke conscious, and
composed. He seemed to think himself dying,
and said to Mr. Lockhart: “ I may have but a
minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good
man, — be virtuous, — be religious, — be a good
man. Nothing else will give you any comfort
when you come to lie here.”
Mr. Lockhart asked if he should call Sophia
and Anne (Sir Walter’s sons had been obliged
to return to their posts). “ No,” he said, u don’t
disturb them. Poor souls ! I know they were up
all night. God bless you all.”
These were his last audible words. He sunk
again into a deep stupor, and only revived for a
moment when his sons came to him. He knew
them, and blessed them with his eyes.

He passed away very calmly, with all his chil
dren kneeling around him, and his son Walter
kissed down his eyelids for the last sleep.
When, a few days after, that bereaved family
returned from Dry burgh Abbey, where they had
laid the worn and aged form of their beloved, to
beautiful and desolate Abbotsford, they tried to
comfort one another with thoughts of him in a
better home, — in the midst of all his loved ones
gone before, — with his tender wife by his side,
and dear little Johnny at his knee.
When her idolized father was gone, Anne
Scott had no heart to stay. She drooped and
died within that year. Sophia followed a few
years after, and Walter and Charles have since
died. Abbotsford is now occupied by Mr. Hope,
who married a granddaughter of Sir Walter

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